THE  UNIVERSITY  OF 

NORTH  CAROLINA 

LIBRARY 


THE  WILMER  COLLECTION 

OF  CIVIL  WAR  NOVELS 

PRESENTED  BY 

RICHARD  H.  WILMER,  JR. 


\^  <£ro,  '3l^^0^^^  ^ 


Digitized  by  tlie  Internet  Arcliive 

in  2010  witli  funding  from 

University  of  Nortli  Carolina  at  Chapel  Hill 


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THE    DESERTER 

AND  OTHER  STORIES 

A  Book  of  Two  Wars 


BY 


HAROLD    FREDERIC 

AUTHOR  OF  "  IN  THE  VALLEY,"  "  SETH's  BROTHER'S  WIFE  ' 
"  THE  COPPERHEAD,"  ETC. 


WITH  ILLUSTRATIONS  BY 

MERRILL,  SANDHAM,   GILBERT  GAUL 
AND   GEORGE  FOSTER  BARNES 


BOSTON 
LOTHROP   PUBLISHING    COMPANY 


Copyright,  1898, 


LoTHROP  Publishing  Company. 


All  rights  reserved. 


J.  S.  Cushing  &  Co.  -  Berwick  &  Smith 
Norwood  Mass.  USA. 


CONTENTS. 


THE    DESERTER. 

:hapter 

I.  Discoveries  in  the  Barn 

II.  A  Sudden  Departure    . 

III.  Father  and  Son     . 

IV.  The  "Meanest  Word" 
V.  The  Deputy  Marshal    . 

VI.     A  Home  in  the  Woods 
VII.     Another  Chase  after  Mose 


PAGE 

• 

3 

20 

42 

60 

80 

98 

117 

A   DAY    IN    THE   WILDERNESS. 

I.     The  Valley  of  Death 

II.  Lafe  reconnoitres  the  Valley  . 

III.  The  Bounty-Jumper 

IV.  Red  Pete  in  Captivity           .... 
V.  Lafe    rescues   an   Officer,  and  finds  his 

Cousin 


139 
157 
177 
198 

216 


HOW    DICKON    CAME    BY    HIS    NAME. 

I.  The  Making  of  a  Soldier    . 

II.  A  Burst  for  Freedom  .... 

III.  A  Strange  Christmas  Eve    . 

IV.  Up  in  the  World  .... 


239 
260 
279 
299 


iv  Contents. 

WHERE   AVON   INTO   SEVERN   FLOWS. 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

I.     Hugh  the  Writer 319 

II.     Sir  Hereward's  Ring 350 

III.     How  Hugh  met  the  Prince  .        .        .381 


ILLUSTRATIONS. 


I'll  unlock  it  bimeby  —  maybe  '  " 


<' '  Sh-h  !    Talk  Lower  ! ' " 

'' '  Gimme  that  Gun  ! '  " 

" '  Drop  it  —  you  ! ' "  . 

Lafe  and  the  Bounty-Jumper  . 

"  '  I'm  Steve  Hornbeck's  Son  ! ' " 

"  Sir  Watty  came  stalking  down  " 

"'Whose  Blood  is  this?'" 

"  He  advanced  and  kissed  the  Lady's  Hand  " 

"  Two  Dozen  Pike-Heads  clashed  down  as  by  a 
Single  Touch  "... 


Frontispiece 


PAGE 
27 

61 

249 
285 

357 

385 


THE    DESERTER. 


THE    DESERTER. 

CHAPTER   I. 

DISCOVERIES    IN    THE    BARN. 

TT  was  the  coldest  morning  of  the  winter, 
thus  far,  and  winter  is  no  joke  on  those 
northern  tablelands,  where  the  streams  still 
run  black  in  token  of  their  forest  origin,  and 
old  men  remember  how  the  deer  used  to  be 
driven  to  their  clearings  for  food,  when  the 
snow  had  piled  itself  breast  high  through 
the  fastnesses  of  the  Adirondacks.  The  wil- 
derness had  been  chopped  and  burned  back- 
ward out  of  sight  since  their  pioneer  days, 
but  this  change,  if  anything,  served  only  to 
add  greater  bitterness  to  the  winter's  cold. 

Certainly  it  seemed  to  Job  Parshall  that 
this  was  the  coldest  morning  he  had  ever 
known.     It  would  be  bad  enough  when  day- 

3 


4  TJie  Deserter. 

light  came,  but  the  darkness  of  this  early 
hour  made  it  almost  too  much  for  flesh  and 
blood  to  bear.  There  had  been  a  stray  star 
or  two  visible  overhead  when  he  first  came 
out-of-doors  at  half-past  four,  but  even  these 
were  missing  now. 

The  crusted  snow  in  the  barnyard  did 
throw  up  a  wee,  faint  light  of  its  own,  for  all 
the  blackness  of  the  sky,  but  Job  carried, 
besides  a  bucket,  a  lantern  to  help  him  in  his 
impending  struggle  with  the  pump.  This 
ancient  contrivance  had  been  ice-bound 
every  morning  for  a  fortnight  past,  and  one 
needn'.t  be  the  son  of  a  prophet  to  foresee 
that  this  morning  it  would  be  frozen  as  stiff 
as  a  rock. 

It  did  not  turn  out  to  be  so  prolonged 
or  so  fierce  a  conflict  as  he  had  appre- 
hended. He  had  reasoned  to  himself  the 
previous  day  that  if  the  pump-handle  were 
propped  upright  with  a  stick  overnight, 
there  would  be  less  water  remaining  in  the 
cylinder    to   freeze,  and    had    made  the    ex- 

RBC 

periment  just   before  bedtime.  ^^y 


Discoveries  in  the  Barn.  5 

It  worked  fairly  well.  There  was  only 
a  o-ood  deal  of  ice  to  be  knocked  off  the 
spout  with  a  sledge-stake,  and  then  a 
disheartening  amount  of  dry  pumping  to 
be  done  before  the  welcome  drag  of  suction 
made  itself  felt  in  the  well  below,  like  the 
bite  of  a  big  fish  in  deep  water. 

Job  filled  his  bucket  and  trudged  back 
with  it  to  the  cow-barn,  stamping  his  feet 
for  warmth  as  he  went. 

By  comparison  with  the  numbing  air 
outside,  this  place  was  a  dream  of  coziness. 
Two  long  lines  of  cows,  a  score  or  more 
on  a  side,  faced  each  other  in  double  rows 
of  stanchions.  Their  mere  presence  had 
filled  the  enclosure  with  a  steaming  warmth. 
The  ends  of  the  barn  and  the  loft  above 
were  packed  close  with  hay,  moreover,  and 
half  a  dozen  lantern  lights  were  gleaming 
for  the  hired  men  to  see  by,  in  addition  to 
a  reflector  lamp  fastened  against  a  post. 

The  men  did  not  mind  the  cold.  They 
had  been  briskly  at  work  cleaning  up  the 
stable    and    getting    down    hay   and    fodder, 


6  The  Deserter. 

and  the  exercise  kept  their  blood  running 
and  spirits  light.  They  talked  as  they 
plied  shovel  and  pitchfork,  guessing  how 
near  the  low-mercury  mark  of  twenty  be- 
low zero  the  temperature  outside  had  really 
fallen,  and  chaffing  one  of  their  number 
who  had  started  out  to  go  through  the 
winter  without  wearing  an  overcoat. 

Their  cheery  voices,  resounding  through 
the  half-gloom  above  the  soft,  crackling 
undertone  of  the  kine  munching  their 
breakfast  seemed  to  add  to  the  warmth  of 
the  barn. 

The  boy  Job  had  begun  setting  about  a 
task  which  had  no  element  of  comfort  in 
it.  He  got  out  a  large  sponge,  took  up 
the  bucket  he  had  brought  from  the  well, 
and  started  at  the  end  of  one  of  the  row^s 
to  wash  clean  the  full  udder  of  each  of  |5 
the  forty-odd  cows  in  turn.  In  a  few 
minutes  the  milkers  would  be  ready  to 
begin,  and  to  keep  ahead  of  them  he  must 
have  a  clear  start  of  a  dozen  cows. 

When  he  had  at  last  reached  this  point 


or 


Discoveries  in  the  Barn.  7 

of  vantage,  the  loud  din  of  the  streams 
against  the  sides  of  the  milkers'  tin  pails 
had  commenced  behind  him. 

He  rose,  straightened  his  shoulders,  and 
shook  his  red,  dripping  hands  with  a  groan 
of  pain.  The  icy  water  had  well  nigh  frozen 
them. 

It  was  a  common  thing  for  all  about  the 
barn  to  warm  cold  hands  by  thrusting  them 
deep  down  into  one  of  the  barrels  of  brew- 
ers' grains  which  stood  in  a  row  beyond 
the  oat-bin.  The  damp,  crushed  maft  gen- 
erates within  its  bulk  so  keen  a  heat  that 
even  when  the  top  is  frozen  there  will  be 
steam  within.  Job  went  over  and  plunged 
his  cold  hands  to  the  wrist  in  the  smoking 
fodder.  He  held  them  there  this  morning 
for  a  luxurious  extra  minute,  wondering  idly 
as  he  did  so  how  the  cows  sustained  that 
merciless  infliction  of  ice-water  without  any 
such  comforting  after-resource. 

Suddenly  he  became  conscious  that  his 
fingers,  into  which  the  blood  was  coming 
back  with   a  stinging   glow,   had    hit   upon 


8  The  Deserter. 

something  of  an  unusual  character  in  the 
barrel.  He  felt  of  it  vaguely  for  a  moment, 
then  drew  the  object  forth,  rubbed  off  the 
coating  of  malt,  and  took  it  over  to  the  lamp. 

It  was  a  finger-ring  carved  out  of  a  thick 
gutta-percha  button,  but  with  more  skill 
than  the  schoolboys  of  those  days  used  to 
possess ;  and  in  its  outer  rim  had  been  set 
a  little  octagonal  silver  plate,  bearing  some 
roughly  cut  initials. 

Job  seemed  to  remember  having  seen  the 
ring  before,  and  jumped  to  the  conclusion 
that  some  one  of  the  hired  men  had  uncon- 
sciously slipped  it  off  while  warming  his 
hands  in  the  grains.  He  went  back  with 
it  to  the  milkers,  and  went  from  one  to  an- 
other, seeking  an  owner. 

Each  lifted  his  head  from  where  it  rested 
against  the  cow's  flank,  glanced  at  the 
trinket,  and  making  a  negative  sign  bent 
down  again  to  his  work.  The  last  one  up 
the  row  volunteered  the  added  comment: 

"  You  better  hustle  ahead  with  your 
spongin'  off;   I'm  just  about  through  here!" 


Discoveries  in  the  Barn.  9 

The  boy  put  the  circlet  in  his  pocket  — 
it  was  much  too  large  for  any  of  his  fingers 
—  and  resumed  his  task.  The  water  was 
as  terribly  cold  as  ever,  and  the  sudden 
change  seemed  to  scald  his  skin ;  but  some- 
how he  gave  less  thought  to  his  physical 
discomfort  than  before. 

It  was  very  funny  to  have  found  a  ring 
like  that.  It  reminded  him  of  a  story  he 
had  read  somewhere,  and  could  not  now 
recall,  save  for  the  detail  that  in  that  case 
the  ring  contained  a  priceless  jewel,  the 
proceeds  of  which  enriched  the  finder  for 
life.  Clearly  no  such  result  was  to  be 
looked  for  here.  It  was  doubtful  if  any- 
body would  give  even  twenty-five  cents  for 
this  poor,  home-made  ornament.  All  the 
same  it  was  a  ring,  and  Job  had  a  feel- 
ing that  the  manner  of  its  discovery  was 
romantic. 

Working  for  a  milkman  does  not  open 
up  so  rich  a  field  of  romance  that  any  hints 
of  the  curious  or  remarkable  can  be  suffered 
to  pass  unnoticed.     The  boy  pondered  the 


lo  The  Deserter. 

mystery  of  how  the  ring  got  into  the  barrel. 
For  a  moment  he  dalHed  with  the  notion 
that  it  might  belong  to  his  employer,  who 
owned  the  barn-  and  almost  all  the  land 
within  sight,  and  a  prosperous  milk-route 
down  in  Octavius. 

But  no !  Elisha  Teachout  was  not  a  man 
given  to  rings ;  and  even  if  he  were,  he 
assuredly  would  not  have  them  of  rubber. 
Besides,  the  grains  had  only  been  carted 
in  from  town  two  days  before,  and  Mr. 
Teachout  had  been  nursing  his  rheumatism 
indoors  for  fully  a  week. 

It  was  more  probable  that  some  one  down 
in  the  brewery  at  Octavius  had  lost  the 
ring.  When  Job  had  been  there  for  grains, 
he  had  noticed  that  the  workers  were  cheer- 
ful and  hearty  fellows.  No  doubt  they 
might  be  trusted  to  behave  handsomely 
upon  getting  back  a  valued  keepsake  which 
had  been  given  up  as  forever  gone. 

Perhaps  —  who  could  tell?  —  this  humble, 
whittled-out  piece  of  gutta-percha  might  be 
prized    beyond    rubies    on    account    of    its 


Discoveries  in  the  Barn.  ii 

family  associations.  Such  things  had  hap- 
pened before,  according  to  the  story-books ; 
and  forthwith  the  lad  lost  himself  in  a  maze 
of  brilliant  day-dreams,  rose-tinted  by  this 
possibility. 

He  could  almost  behold  himself  adopted 
by  the  owner  of  the  brewery  —  the  fat,  red- 
faced  Englishman  with  the  big  watch-chain, 
whom  he  had  seen  once  walking  majesti- 
ally  among  his  vats.  Perhaps,  in  truth,  Job 
was  a  trifle  drowsy. 

All  at  once  he  roused  himself  with  a  start, 
and  began  to  listen  with  all  his  ears.  The 
milkers  behind  him  were  talking  about  the 
ring.  They  had  to  shout  to  one  another 
to  overcome  the  fact  of  separation  and  the 
noise  in  their  pails,  and  Job  could  hear 
every  word. 

"I  tell  you  who  had  a  ring  like  that  — 
Mose  Whipple,"  one  of  them  called  out. 
"  Don't  you  remember  ?  He  made  it  with 
his  jack-knife,  that  time  he  was  laid  up  with 
the  horse  kickin'  him  in  the  knee." 

"  Seems's    if    I    do,"    said   another.     "  He 


12  The  Deserter. 

was  always  whittlin'  out  somethin'  or  other 
—  a  peach-stone  basket,  or  an  ox-gad,  or 
somethin'." 

"  Some  one  was  tellin'  me  yesterday,"  put 
in  a  third,  "  that  old  man  Whipple's  sick 
abed.  Nobody  ain't  seen  him  around  for 
up'ards  of  a  fortnight.  I  guess  this  cold 
snap'll  about  see  the  last  o'  him.  He's  been 
poorly  all  the  fall." 

"  He  ain't  never  ben  the  same  man  since 
Mose  'listed,"  remarked  the  first  speaker; 
"  that  is  if  you  call  it  'listin'  when  a  man 
takes  his  three  hundred  dollars  to  go  out 
as  a  substitute." 

"  Yes,  and  don't  even  git  the  money  at 
that,  but  jest  has  it  applied  to  the  interest 
he  owes  on  his  mortgage.  That's  payin' 
for  a  dead  horse,  if  anything  is  in  this 
world ! " 

"  Well,  Mose  is  the  sort  o'  chap  that 
would  be  workin'  to  pay  for  some  kind  o' 
dead  horse  all  his  life,  anyway.  If  it  wasn't 
one  it'd  be  another.  Never  knew  a  fellow 
in   all   my  born   days   with  so  little  git-up- 


Discoveries  in  the  Barn.  13 

and-git  about  him.  He  might  as  well  be 
shoulderin'  a  musket  as  anything  else,  for 
all  the  profit  he'd  git  out  of  it." 

"  A  chip  of  the  old  block,  if  there  ever 
was  one.  The  old  man  always  wanted  to 
do  a  little  berryin',  an'  a  little  fishin',  an'  a 
little  huntin',  an'  keep  a  dozen  traps  or  so 
in  the  woods,  an'  he'd  throw  up  the  best- 
payin'  job  in  the  deestrict  to  have  a  loafin' 
spell  when  the  fit  took  him  —  an'  Mose  was 
like  him  as  two  peas  in  a  pod. 

"  I  remember  one  year,  Mose  an'  me  hired 
out  in  the  middle  o'  March,  an'  we  hadn't 
fairly  begun  early  ploughin'  before  he  said 
he  wasn't  feelin'  right  that  spring,  an'  give 
up  half  his  month's  wages  to  go  home,  an' 
then  what  do  we  see  next  day  but  him  an 
his  father  down  by  the  bridge  with  their 
fishpoles,  before  the  snow-water'd  begun  to 
git  out  o'  the  creek.  What  ki^i  you  do  with 
men  like  that }  " 

"  Make  substitutes  of  'em ! "  one  of  the 
milkers  exclaimed,  and  at  this  there  was  a 
general  laugh. 


14  The  Deserter. 

Every  one  on  the  farm,  and  for  that  mat- 
ter on  all  the  other  farms  for  miles  round, 
knew  that  Elisha  Teachout  had  been  drafted 
the  previous  summer,  and  had  sent  Moses 
Whipple  to  the  front  in  his  place.  This 
relation  between  the  rich  man  and  the  poor 
man  was  too  common  a  thing  in  those  war 
times  to  excite  particular  comment.  But, 
as  Mr.  Teachout  was  not  beloved  by  his 
hired  men,  they  enjoyed  a  laugh  whenever 
the  subject  came  up. 

Job  had  gone  over  to  the  lamp,  during 
the  progress  of  this  talk,  and  scrutinized  the 
ring.  Surely  enough,  the  clumsily  scratched 
initials  on  the  little  silver  plate,  obviously 
cut  down  from  an  old  three-cent  piece,  were 
an  M  and  a  W. 

This  made  it  all  the  more  difficult  to 
puzzle  out  how  the  ring  came  in  the  barrel. 
The  lad  turned  the  problem  over  in  his 
mind  with  increasing  bewilderment. 

He  had  known  Mose  Whipple  all  his 
life.  His  own  father,  who  died  some  years 
ago,  had  accounted    Mose  among  his  inti- 


Discoveries  i^i  the  Barn.  15 

mate  friends,  and  Job's  earliest  recollections 
were  of  seeing  the  two  start  off  together  of 
a  spring  morning  with  shot-guns  on  their 
shoulders  and  powder-flasks  hung  round 
their  bodies. 

They  had  both  been  poor  men,  and  if 
they  had  not  cared  so  much  for  hunting — 
at  least  if  one  of  them  had  not  —  Job  re- 
flected that  probably  this  very  morning  he 
himself  would  be  sleeping  in  a  warm  bed, 
instead  of  freezing  his  hands  in  the  hard 
employ  of  Elisha  Teachout. 

It  was  Impossible  not  to  associate  Mose 
with  these  recriminatory  thoughts ;  yet  it 
was  equally  impossible  to  be  angry  with 
him  long.  The  boy,  indeed,  found  himself 
dwelling  upon  the  amiable  side  of  Mose's 
shiftless  nature.  He  remembered  how  Mose 
used  to  come  round  to  their  poor  little  place, 
after  Job's  father's  death,  to  see  if  he  could 
help  the  widow  and  her  brood  in  their 
struggle. 

After  Mrs.  Parshall  had  married  again, 
and   gone    West,   leaving   Job   to   earn    his 


1 6  The  Deserter. 

own  living  on  the  Teachout  farm,  Mose 
had  always  kept  a  kindly  if  intermittent 
eye  on  the  boy.  Only  the  previous 
Christmas  he  had  managed,  somehow,  to 
obtain  an  old  pair  of  skates  as  a  present 
for  Job,  and  when  he  had  gone  to  the 
war  in  the  following  August,  only  the  fact 
that  he  had  to  sell  his  shot-gun  to  pay  a 
pressing  debt  prevented  his  giving  that  to 
the  boy  for  his  own. 

The  news  that  old  Asa  Whipple  was 
ill  forced  its  way  to  the  top  of  Job's 
thoughts.  He  resolved  that  that  very  day, 
if  he  could  squeeze  in  the  time  for  it,  he 
would  cut  across  lots  on  the  crust  to  the 
Whipple  house,  and  see  how  the  lonely 
old  man  was. 

As  the  milkers  said,  old  Asa  had  been 
"  poorly "  since  his  Mose  went  away.  It 
was  only  too  probable  that  he  had  been 
extremely  poor  as  well. 

Even  when  Mose  was  at  home,  theirs 
was  the  most  poverty-stricken  household 
in    the    township.      Left    to    his    own    re- 


Discoveries  in  the  Barn.  17 

sources,  and  failing  swiftly  all  at  once  in 
health,  the  father  had  tried  to  earn  some- 
thing by  knitting  mittens  and  stockings. 

It  had  looked  funny  enough  to  see  this 
big-framed,  powerfully  built  old  man  fum- 
bling at  his  needles  like  some  grandmother 
in  her  rocking-chair  by  the  stove. 

It  occurred  to  Job  now  that  there  was 
something  besides  humor  in  the  picture. 
He  had  been  told  that  people  were  mak- 
ing woollen  mittens  and  stockings  now, 
like  everything  else,  by  machinery.  Very 
likely  old  Asa  couldn't  sell  his  things 
after  he  had  knit  them ;  and  that  might 
mean  starvation. 

Yes,  that  very  day,  in  spite  of  every- 
thing, he  would  go  over  and  see. 

He  had  finished  his  task  now.  The 
milkers  had  nearly  finished  theirs.  Two 
of  the  hired  men  were  taking  the  cloth 
strainers  off  the  tops  of  all  the  cans  but 
one,  and  fastening  on  the  covers  instead. 
He  could  hear  the  bells  on  the  harness  of 
the    horses    outside,  waiting   with    the    big 


1 8  The  Deserter. 

sleigh  to  rush  off  to  town  with  the  milk. 
It  was  still  very  dark  out-of-doors. 

Job  put  away  his  water-bucket,  warmed 
his  hands  once  more  in  the  grains-barrel, 
and  set  about  getting  down  a  fresh  supply 
of  hay  for  the  cows.  Six  weeks  of  winter 
had  pretty  well  worn  away  the  nearest 
haymow,  and  the  boy  had  to  go  further 
back  toward  the  end  of  the  barn,  into  a 
darkness  which  was  only  dimly  penetrated 
by  the  rays  of  the  lantern. 

Working  thus,  guided  rather  by  sense 
of  touch  than  of  sight,  the  boy  suddenly 
felt  himself  stepping  on  something  big  and 
rounded,  which  had  no  business  in  a  hay- 
mow. It  rolled  from  under  his  feet,  and 
threw  him  off  his  balance  to  his  hands 
and  knees.  A  muttered  exclamation  rose 
from  just  beside  him,  and  then  suddenly 
he  was  gripped  bodily  in  the  clutch  of  a 
strong  man. 

Frightened  and  vainly  struggling,  Job 
did  not  cry  out,  but  twisted  his  head 
about  in  the  effort  to  see  who  it  was  that 


Discoveries  in  the  Barn.  19 

he  had  thus  strangely  encountered.  There 
was  just  hght  enough  from  the  distant 
lantern  to  reveal  in  the  face  so  menac- 
ingly close  to  his  —  of  all  unlooked-for 
faces  in  the  world  —  that  of  Mose 
Whipple ! 

"  Why,  Mose ! "  he  began,  in  bewilder- 
ment. 

"Sh-h!  Keep  still!"  came  in  a  fierce 
whisper,  "  unless  you  want  to  see  me  hung 
higher  than  Haman  !  " 


CHAPTER    II. 

A    SUDDEN    DEPARTURE. 

T^HE  man  upon  whose  sleeping  form 
Job  had  stepped  in  the  haymow  sat 
up  and  looked  about  him  in  a  half-puzzled 
fashion,  mechanically  brushing  the  loose 
particles  from  his  hair  and  neck. 

"  I  s'pose  it's  mornin',"  he  whispered, 
after  a  minute's  silence.  "  How  long'U  it 
be  before  daylight  ?  " 

Job,  released  from  the  other's  clutch,  had 
scrambled  to  his  feet,  and  stood  staring 
down  in  astonishment  at  his  old  friend, 
Mose  Whipple.  He  had  regained  his  fork, 
and  held  it  up  as  if  to  repel  a  possible 
second  attack. 

"  What  did  you  want  to  pitch  on  to  me 
that  way  for  ?  "  he  asked  at  last  in  displeased 
tones.  ^^y 


A  Stidden  Departure.  21 

"  Sh-h  !  Talk  lower !  "  urged  Mose  under 
his  breath.  "  I  didn't  mean  to  hurt  you, 
sonny.  I  didn't  know  who  you  was.  You 
come  tromplin'  on  me  here  when  I  was 
fast  asleep,  and  I  took  hold  of  you  when  I 
wasn't  hardly  woke  up,  you  see,  that's  all. 
I  didn't  hurt  you,  did   I  }  " 

"  No,"  Job  admitted  grudgingly.  "  But 
there  wasn't  no  need  to  throw  me  down 
and  choke  me  all  the  same." 

"  I  thought  it  was  somebody  comin'  to 
catch  me,"  explained  the  other,  still  in  a 
whisper.  "  But  who  else  is  here  in  the 
barn  ?     What  time  is  it  gettin'  to  be  t  " 

"  They're  just  through  milkin',"  replied 
the  boy.  "  They're  gettin'  the  cans  out 
into  the  sleigh.  They'll  all  be  gone  in  a 
minute  or  two.  Time }  Oh,  it  ain't  six 
yet." 

"  That's  all  right,"  said  Mose,  with  a  weary 
sigh  of  relief.  He  added,  upon  reflection : 
"  Say,  sonny,  can  you  manage  to  get  me 
something  to  eat  ?  I've  gone  the  best  part 
of  two  days  now  without  a  mouthful." 


22  The  Deserter. 

"  Mebbe  I  can,"  responded  Job,  doubt- 
ingly.  Then  a  sudden  thought  struck  him. 
"  Say,  Mose,"  he  went  on,  "  I  bet  I  can  tell 
what  you  did  the  first  thing  when  you  came 
into  the  barn  here.  You  went  and  stuck 
your  hands  into  the  grains  there  —  that's 
how  it  was." 

The  man  displayed  no  curiosity  as  to 
the  boy's  meaning.  "  Yes,  by  jiminy !  "  he 
mused  aloud.  "  I'd  'a'  liked  to  have  got  in 
head  first.  I  tell  you,  sonny,  I  was  about 
as  near  freezin'  to  death  as  they  make  'em. 
I  couldn't  have  gone  another  hundred  rods 
to  save  my  life.  They'd  have  found  me 
froze  stiff  on  the  road,  that's  all." 

"  But  what  are  you  doing  here,  anyway.'*  " 
asked  Job.  "  You  ain't  gone  and  deserted, 
have  you } " 

"  Well,"  said  the  other,  doggedly,  "  you 
can  call  it  what  you  like.  One  thing's 
certain  —  I  ain't  down  South,  be  I .?  " 

"  Something  else  is  pretty  certain,  too," 
the  boy  put  in.     "  They'll  hang  you,  sure  !  " 

Mose  did  not  seem  to  have  much  doubt 


A  Sudde7i  Departure.  23 

on  this  point.  "  Anyway,  I'll  see  the  old 
man  first,"  he  said.  "  It's  pitch  dark  out- 
doors, ain't   it .?  " 

The  boy  nodded.  "  I  must  git  along 
with  my  work,"  he  commented,  after  an- 
other little  silence.  "  What  are  you  fig- 
gerin'  on  doin',  anyway,  Mose  t  "  he  asked 
gravely. 

"  Well,  I'm  goin'  to  sneak  out  while  it's 
still  dark,"  said  the  man,  "  and  git  across 
lots  to  our  place,  and  just  wake  up  the 
old  man,  and  —  and  —  well,  see  how  he  is, 
that's  all.  Mebbe  I  can  manage  it  so  that 
I  can  skip  out  again,  and  nobody  be  the 
wiser.  But  whether  or  no,  that's  what  I'm 
bound  to  do.  Prob'ly  you've  heard  —  is  he 
—  is  his  health  pretty  middlin'  good  } " 

"  Seems  to  me  some  one  was  saying 
something  about  his  being  kind  o'  under 
the  weather  lately,"  replied  Job,  with  eva- 
sion. "  I  was  thinkin'  of  goin'  over  this 
afternoon  myself,  if  I  could  git  the  time, 
to  see  him.  The  fact  is,  Mose,  I  guess  he 
is  failing   some.     It's    been  a  pretty   tough 


24  The  Deserter. 

winter  for  old  folks,  you  know.  Elisha 
Teachout's  been  laid  up  himself  with  rheu- 
matics now  for  more'n  a  fortnight,  and  he 
ain't  old  exactly." 

"  He  ain't  had  'em  half  bad  enough ! " 
cried  Mose,  springing  to  his  feet  with  sud- 
denly revived  energy.  "  If  he's  let  the  old 
man  suffer  —  if  he  ain't  kept  his  word  by 
him— I'll  —  I'll  take  it  out  of  his  old  hide 
if  I  have  to  go  to  jail  for  it ! " 

"  You've  got  enough  other  things  to  go 
to  jail  for,  and  get  hung  for  into  the  bar- 
gain, I  should  think,"  said  Job.  "  You'd 
better  not  talk  so  loud,  either." 

Surely  enough,  one  of  the  hired  men 
seemed  to  have  remained  in  the  barn,  and 
to  have  caught  the  sound  of  voices  —  for 
the  noise  of  his  advancing  footsteps  could 
be  heard  on  the  floor  between  the  stan- 
chions. Mose  threw  himself  flat,  and  rolled 
under  the  hay  as  best  he  could.  Job  began 
to  sing  in  a  low-voiced,  incoherent  way  for 
a  moment,  and  then  loudly.  Prying  up  a 
forkful  of  hay,  he  staggered  under  the  bur- 


A  Sudden  Departure.  25 

den  back  to  the  cows,  singing  as  he  came 
toward  the   intruder. 

It  was  only  Nelse  Hornbeck,  an  elderly 
and  extra  hand  who  worked  at  starvation 
wages  during  the  winter,  chopping  firewood 
and  doing  odd  chores  about  the  house  and 
barns.  When  he  saw  Job  he  stopped. 
He  was  in  a  sociable  mood,  and  though 
he  leaned  up  against  one  of  the  stanchions 
and  offered  no  sign  of  going  farther,  dis- 
played a  depressing  desire  for  conversation. 

The  boy  came  and  went,  bringing  in  the 
hay  and  distributing  it  along  under  the 
double  row  of  broad  pink  noses  on  either 
side.  He  made  the  task  as  lonsr  as  he 
could  in  the  hope  of  tiring  Nelse  out,  but 
without  avail. 

"  I  dunno  but  I'm  almost  sorry  I  didn't 
enlist  myself  last  fall,"  drawled  Hornbeck, 
settling  himself  in  an  easy  posture.  "  So 
far's  I  can  make  out,  Mose  Whipple  and 
the  rest  of  the  boys  are  having  a  great 
sight  better  time  of  it  down  South,  with 
nothin'  to  do  and    plenty  o'  help  to  do  it, 


26  The  Deserter. 

than  we  are  here  to  hum.  Why,  Steve 
Trimble's  brother-in-law  writes  him  that 
they're  havin'  more  fun  down  there  than 
you  can  shake  a  stick  at ;  livin'  snug  and 
warm  in  sort  o'  little  houses  built  into  the 
ground,  and  havin'  horse-races  and  cock- 
fights and  so  ,on  every  day.  They  ain't 
been  no  fightin'  since  Thanksgivin',  he 
says,    and    they're    all    gittin'   fat    as    seals." 

"  Well,  why  dont  you  enlist  then  t "  de- 
manded Job,  curtly,  going  on  with  his  work. 

"  I  dunno,"  said  the  hired  man  in  a  med- 
itative way.  "  I  guess  I'm  afeard  o'  git- 
tin' homesick.  I'd  always  be  hankerin'  to 
git  back  and  see  my  folks,  and  they  won't 
let  you  do  that,  nohow.  A  lot  of  'em  tries 
to  sneak  off,  they  say,  but  Steve's  brother- 
in-law  says  they've  got  cavalry-men  on 
horseback  all  around  outside  the  camps, 
and  they  just  nail  everybody  that  tries  to 
git  out,  and  then  they  take  'em  back  to 
camp  and  shoot  'em.  That's  what  they 
do  —  lead  'em  out  before  breakfast  and 
shoot  'em  down." 


#  ^ 


"  Sh-h  !    Talk   Lower  !  " 


A  Sudden  Departure.  29 

"  I  thought  they  hung  deserters,"  said 
Job,  pausing  with  his  fork  in  air. 

"  Some  they  hang  and  some  they  shoot," 
repUed  Nelse.  "  I  don't  see  as  it  makes 
much  difference.  I'd  about  as  Heve  be 
one  as  the  other.  I  guess  they  make  it 
a  rule  to  hang  them  that  gits  off  into  the 
North  and  has  to  be  brought  way  back 
again.  That's  only  reasonable,  because 
they've  give  'em  so  much  extry  trouble." 

Job  was  interested.  "  But  suppose  a 
man  does  get  up  North  —  I  guess  they 
ain't  much  chance  of  their  ever  findin' 
him  after  that." 

"  Ain't  they  ? "  exclaimed  the  hired  man, 
incredulously.  "  Why,  it's  a  thousand  to 
one  they  catch  him !  They've  got  their 
detectives  in  every  county  just  doin' 
nothin'  but  watchin'  for  deserters.  They 
git  paid  for  every  one  they  catch,  so  much 
a  head,  and  that  makes  'em  keep  their 
eyes  peeled." 

"  But  how  can  you  tell  a  deserter  from 
any  other  man,"  pursued    Job,  "so  long  as 


30  The  Deserter. 

he's  got  ordinary  clothes  on  and  minds 
his  own  business  and  keeps  away  from 
where  he's  known  ?  " 

"  Oh,  they  always  point  for  home  — 
that's  the  thing  of  it.  What  do  they 
desert  for?  Because  they're  homesick. 
So  all  the  detectives  have  got  to  do  is  to 
watch  their  place,  and  nab  'em  when  they 
try  to  sneak  in.  It's  as  easy  as  roUin'  off 
a  log.  They  always  git  caught,  every 
mother's  son  of  'em." 

Tiresome  Nelse  Hornbeck  was  still 
talking  when  Job  came  to  the  end  of  all 
possible  pretexts  of  employment  in  the 
cow-barn,  and  was  only  too  obviously  wait- 
ing to  accompany  the  boy  over  to  the 
house  to  breakfast.  At  last  Job  had  to 
accept  the  situation  and  go. 

The  boy  dared  no  more  than  steal  for  a 
moment  back  into  the  hay,  feel  about  with 
his  foot  for  where  Mose  lay  hidden  in  the 
dark,  and  drop  the  furtive  whisper,  "  Going 
to  breakfast.     If  I  can  I'll  bring  you  some." 

Then,   in    company   with    Nelse,   he    left 


A  Sudden  Departure.  31 

the  barn,  shutting  and  hooking  the  door 
behind  him.  It  occurred  to  him  that  Mose 
must  have  effected  an  entrance  by  the 
door  at  the  other  end,  which  was  fastened 
merely  by  a  latch.  Otherwise  the  dis- 
placement of  the  outer  hook  would  have 
been  noticed. 

It  was  lucky,  he  thought  in  passing,  that 
Elisha  Teachout  did  not  have  padlocks  on 
the  doors  of  his  cow-barn,  as  he  had  on 
those  which  protected  his  horses  and 
wagons  and  grain.  If  he  had,  there 
would  have  been  the  lifeless  and  icy  body 
of  Mose,  lying  on  the  frozen  roadside,  to 
be  discovered  by  the  daylight. 

Poor  Mose !  he  had  saved  his  life  from 
the  bitterly  cold  night,  but  was  it  not 
only  to  lose  it  again  at  the  hands  of  the 
hangman  or  the  firing  party  .f* 

Job  remembered  having  seen,  just  a  few 
weeks  before,  a  picture  in  one  of  the  illus- 
trated weeklies  of  a  deserter  sitting  on  his 
own  coffin,  while  files  of  soldiers  were 
being    drawn    up    to    witness    his    impend- 


32  The  Deserter. 

ing  punishment.  Although  the  artist  had 
given  the  doomed  man  a  ver}^  bad  face 
indeed,  Job  had  been  conscious  at  the 
time  of  feehng  a  certain  human  sympathy 
with  him. 

As  his  memory  dwelt  now  on  the  pict- 
ure, this  face  of  the  prisoner  seemed  to 
change  into  the  freckled  and  happy-go- 
lucky  lineaments  of  Mose  Whipple. 

The  boy  took  with  him  into  the  house 
a  heart  as  heavy  as  lead. 

Breakfast  was  already  well  under  way  in 
the  big,  old-fashioned,  low-ceiled  kitchen  of 
the  Teachout  homestead.  Three  or  four 
hired  men  were  seated  at  one  end  of  the 
long  table,  making  stacks  of  hot  buckwheat 
cakes  saturated  with  pork  fat  on  their  plates, 
and  then  devouring  them  in  huge  mouth- 
fuls. 

They  had  only  the  light  of  two  candles 
on  the  table.  So  long  as  there  was  any- 
thing before  them  to  eat,  they  spoke  never 
a  word.  The  red-faced  women  over  at  the 
stove    did    not    talk    either,   but   worked    in 


A   Sudden  Departure.  33 

anxious  silence  at  their  arduous  task  of 
frying  cakes  fast  enough  to  keep  the  plates 
before  the  hungry  men  supplied. 

For  once  in  his  life  Job  was  not  hungry. 
He  suffered  Nelse  Hornbeck  to  appro- 
priate the  entire  contents  of  the  first  plate 
of  cakes  which  the  girl  brought  to  the 
table,  without  a  sign  of  protest.  This  was 
not  what  usually  happened,  and  as  soon  as 
Nelse  could  spare  the  time  he  looked  at 
his  companion  in  surprise. 

"  What  ails  you  this  mornin' .?  "  he  asked, 
with  his  spoon  in  the  grease.  "  Ain't  you 
feelin'  well }  " 

Job  shook  his  head.  "  I  guess  I'll  eat 
some  bread  'n'  butter  instead,"  he  made 
reply.  He  added  after  a  pause,  "  Some- 
how, I  kind  o'  spleen  against  cakes  this 
mornin'," 

"  They  ain't  much  good  to-day,  for  a  fact," 
assented  Nelse,  when  he  had  eaten  half- 
way through  his  pile.  "  I  guess  they  want 
more  sody.  It  beats  me  why  them  women 
can't  make   their  cakes   alike   no   two   days 


34  The  Deserter. 

in  the  week.  First  the  batter's  sour,  and 
then  they  put  in  more  sody ;  and  then  it's 
too  flat,  and  they  dump  in  a  lot  o'  salt ; 
and  then  they  need  more  graham  flour,  and 
then  the  batter's  too  thick,  and  has  to  be 
thinned  down  with  milk,  and  by  that  time 
the  whole  thing's  wrong,  and  they've  got 
to  begin  all  over  again." 

Nelse  chuckled,  and  looked  up  at  Job, 
who  paid  no  attention. 

"  If  we  men  fooled  around  with  the  cows' 
fodder,  every  day  different,"  Nelse  went  on, 
"  the  way  the  girls  here  do  with  ours,  why, 
the  whole  barnful  of  'em  would  'a'  dried 
up  before  snow  blew.  But  that's  the  way 
with  women !  "  Mr.  Hornbeck  concluded 
with  a  sigh,  and  began  on  the  second  heap 
of  cakes. 

The  boy  had  not  listened.  A  project 
had  been  gradually  shaping  itself  in  his 
mind,  until  now  it  seemed  as  if  he  had 
left  the  cow-barn  with  it  definitely  planned 
out.  As  soon  as  the  other  men,  who  for 
the   moment  were   idling  with  their  knives 


A  Sudden  Departure.  35 

and  forks,  had  been  supplied  with  a  fresh 
batch  of  cakes,  he  would  put  it  into  execu- 
tion. 

"  Why,  you  was  feelin'  first  rate  a  few 
minutes  ago,"  remonstrated  Nelse,  between 
mouthfuls,  "singin'  away  for  dear  life." 

"  Remember  how  Mose  Whipple  used  to 
sing } "  put  in  one  of  the  others.  "  The' 
was  one  song  o'  his,  '  The  Faded  Coat  o' 
Blue '  —  seems's  if  I  could  set  and  listen 
to  him  singin'  that  all  day  long.  He  sung 
it  over  at  Steve  Trimble's  huskin',  I  re- 
member, and  Lib  Truax  let  him  see  her 
home,  just  on  account  of  it.  She  wouldn't 
so  much  as  looked  at  him  any  other  time. 
She  told  my  sister  afterward  that  if  he'd 
'a'  popped  the  question  then,  with  that 
singin'  o'  his  in  her  ears,  as  like  as  not 
she'd  'a'  said  yes." 

"  Lucky  for  her  he  didn't,  then,"  re- 
marked another.  "  I  give  Mose  credit  for 
one  thing,  though.  He  had  sense  enough 
not  to  orit  married  —  and  that's  more'n 
most   shiftless   coots   like    him    have.      He 


36  The  Deserter. 

always  said  that  as  long's  the  old  man 
was  alive,  he'd  keep  a  roof  over  his  head, 
and  let  everything  else  slide.  Whatever 
else  you  may  say,  there's  no  denyin'  Mose 
was  a  good  son  to  the  old  man." 

"  If  I  was  old,"  said  a  third,  "  and  was 
dependent  on  my  son,  I'd  think  a  good 
deal  more  of  him  if  he  shinned  around, 
and  worked  stiddy,  and  put  somethin'  by 
for  a  rainy  day,  even  if  he  did  marry 
into  the  bargain,  instid  o'  bein'  bone-lazy 
like  Mose,  and  never  knowin'  one  day 
where  the  next  day's  breakfast  was  comin' 
from." 

"  Not  if  you  was  old  Asa  Whipple," 
rejoined  the  first  speaker.  "  Mose  was 
jest  after  the  old  man's  heart.  I  never 
see  father  and  son  so  wrapped  up  in 
one  another  as  them  two  was.  Seems's 
if  they  didn't  need  no  other  company  — 
they  was  company  enough  for  themselves. 
That's  what  made  it  so  rough  on  the  old 
man  when  Mose  'listed." 

*'  He   couldn't    help   himself,"  said    Nelse 


A  Sudden  Departure.  37 

Hornbeck;  "there  was  the  interest  comin' 
due  on  the  mortgage,  and  how  else  — " 

"  Sh-h  !  can't  ye !  "  muttered  one  of  the 
others,  kicking  Nelse  under  the  table,  and 
giving  a  backward  nod  of  the  head  toward 
the  women  by  the  stove.  "  Want  them  to 
tell  'Lishe  Teachout  you're  blabbin'  about 
his  affairs,  you  sawney  ? " 

Nelse  bent  hastily  over  his  cakes,  and 
the  others  busied  themselves  at  making 
way  with  the  steaming  fresh  supply  which 
had  accumulated  while  they  talked. 

Job's  opportunity  had  come.  He  rose 
with  as  fine  an  assumption  of  carelessness 
as  he  could  manage,  and  walked  up  to  the 
other  end  of  the  table,  where  the  big  loaf 
'of  home-made  bread  and  the  butter-dish 
were. 

He  cut  off  two  thick  slices ;  the  butter 
which  he  tried  to  spread  upon  them  had 
become  hard  with  the  night's  intense  cold, 
and  had  not  been  near  enough  to  the 
fire  to  be  softened.  So  Job  could  only 
distribute  it  in  lumps  over  the  soft  surface 


38  The  Deserter. 

of  one  slice,  and  then  put  the  other  on  top 
of  it. 

Then,  watching  his  chance  in  the  dim 
Hght,  he  conveyed  the  bread  to  his  jacket 
pocket.  Nobody  at  the  table  had  observed 
him,  he  was  sure. 

He   turned    to  discover  that  the  sitting- 
room    door    close    at    his    back   had    been- 
opened    wide,    and    that    Elisha    Teachout 
was    standing   in    the    doorway,    looking   at 
him  with  all  his  eyes. 

It  was  Elisha  Teachout's  habit  to  look 
very  closely  at  everything  and  everybody  — 
and  his  was  at  the  best  of  times  ■  a  some- 
what uncomfortable  gaze  to  sustain.  Job 
felt  that  this  was  not  one  of  the  best  of 
times. 

His  employer  was  in  all  seasons  an 
austere  and  exacting  man,  coldly  suspicious 
of  those  about  him,  and  as  pitiless  in  his 
treatment  of  his  hired  help's  shortcomings 
as  he  was  vigilant  in  looking  out  for  them. 
But  in  the  winter,  when  rheumatism  put 
its   dread    touch    upon    the    marrow    of   his 


A  Sudden  Departtire.  39 

bones,  he  was  irascible  as  well,  and  led  his 
household  what  they  used  to  describe  out- 
side as  "  a  life  of  it." 

His  lean,  small  figure  did  not  seem  as 
much  bent  as  usual  this  morning  —  probably 
he  was  better.  Job  thought  —  but  his  little 
steel-colored  eyes  had  an  abnormally  pierc- 
ing effect.  His  pallid  face,  hairless  and 
wrinkled,  with  its  sunken  lips  and  sharply 
hooked  nose,  was  of  a  yellower  and  sourer 
aspect  than  usual,  too.  The  boy  felt  him- 
self turning  very  red. 

It  turned  out  to  be  a  needless  alarm. 
Mr.  Teachout  diverted  his  gaze  from  Job 
to  look  at  his  old  silver  watch,  which  he 
took  from  his  fob,  and  then  ostentatiously 
held  it  in  his  hand. 

"  Milk  late  again  this  morning } "  he  de- 
manded, raising  his  querulous  voice  with  a 
snap. 

*'  No,  it  got  off  in  good  season,"  replied 
the  head  hired  man,  nonchalantly. 

He  had  answered  the  same  question  now 
every   day    for    several   years,    and    was    at 


40  The  Deserter. 

home  with  it.  As  a  matter  of  fact  the 
milk  from  the  Teachout  farm  was  never 
late,  but  this  had  not  prevented  the  mas- 
ter's query  becoming  a  formula. 

_"  Then  breakfast  ought  to  'a'  been  out 
of  the  way  half  an  hour  ago ! "  he  ex- 
claimed, in  the  same  high,  snarling  tone. 
"  If  I  didn't  get  up  and  come  out,  sick  as 
I  am,  I  suppose  you'd  be  settin'  here  gorg- 
ing yourselves  till  noon!  And  you  women, 
you  jest  aid  and  abet  'em  in  their  laziness 
and  gormandizing  ! " 

Job  stayed  to  hear  no  more.  Relieved 
from  his  fear  of  detection,  he  had  taken 
advantage  of  the  attack  upon  the  others 
to  get  his  cap  and  sidle  unobtrusively  from 
the  room. 

Once  outside  he  scampered  headlong 
across  the  frozen  ruts  and  hummocks  of 
the  yard  to  the  cow-barn.  There  was  a 
perilous  show  of  pink  and  lemon  lights  in 
the  eastern  sky.  Very  soon  it  would  be 
daylight. 

He    groped    his    way   past    between    the 


A   Sudden  Departure.  41 

stanchions  to  the  hay,  and  began  feeling 
about  with  his  feet. 

"  Here  you*  are,  Mose ! "  he  called  out. 
"It's  almost  daylight!  Here's  something 
to  eat." 

No  answer  came.  The  boy  trampled 
foot  by  foot  over  the  whole  mow  in  vain. 
Mose  Whipple  was  gone. 


CHAPTER   III. 

FATHER    AND    SON. 

IT  is*  not  likely  that  anything  whatever 
*  remains  standing  now  of  the  Whipple 
house.  It  must  be  a  dozen  years  ago  that 
I  shot  a  black  squirrel  as  it  whisked  its 
way  along  over  the  ridge-beam  which  had 
once  been  Asa  Whipple's  roof-tree ;  and  the 
place  then  was  in  ruins.  The  rafters  had 
fallen  in ;  what  was  left  of  the  sides  were 
dry-rotten  under  a  mask  of  microscopic 
silver-gray  moss.  Tangled  masses  of  wild- 
brier  and  lichens  surrounded  its  base,  and 
pushed  their  way  in  through  the  open,  dis- 
mantled doorway. 

Even  at  that  time,  the  road  which  once 
led  past  the  house  had  fallen  into  disuse. 
I  suppose  that  to-day  it  would  be  as  hard 
to   find   the   house   under   the  briers  as  to 

42 


Father  and  Son,  43 

trace  the  ancient  highway  beneath  the  car- 
pet of  grass  and  sorrel. 

Even  during  the  war,  when  human  be- 
ings thought  of  it  as  a  home,  the  Whipple 
place  was  a  pretty  poor  sort  of  habita- 
tion. The  lowliest  of  Elisha  Teachout's 
live-stock  were  considerably  better  housed 
and  better  sheltered  from  the  weather  than 
old  Asa  and  his  son  Mose. 

The  house,  as  I  remember  it,  used  to 
interest  me  because  it  was  so  obviously  a 
remainder  from  the  days  when  the  district 
round  about  was  still  a  veritable  part  of 
the  Adirondacks.  Whether  Asa  built  it 
or  inherited  it  from  his  father,  a  Revolu- 
tionary soldier  who  took  up  his  land-patent 
in  these  primitive  parts,  I  never  knew. 
It  looked  old  enough,  though,  to  have 
been  erected  by  Hendrik  Hudson  him- 
self. 

There  must  have  been  a  sawmill  on  the 
creek  at  the  time,  however,  for  it  was  not 
a  loQ[  house  but  a  frame  building:,  with 
broad   planks    nailed    roughly    to    its    sides, 


44  The  Deserter. 

and  the  joinings  of  these  covered  over 
with  weather-strips. 

The  frames  of  the  door  and  the  two 
front  windows  also  came  from  this  mill, 
wherever  it  was ;  the  window  on  the  north 
side  was  of  rude  construction,  and  was  evi- 
dently the  work  of  some  person  not  greatly 
skilled  in  the  use  of  carpenters'  tools ; 
perhaps    it  was    made  by  old    Asa   himself. 

There  was  a  legend  that  the  roof  had 
once  been  shingled ;  in  my  time  it  was 
made  of  flattened  breadths  of  spruce  bark, 
which  must  have  leaked  sadly  in  rainy 
seasons.  There  was  no  cellar  under  the 
house,  but  a  rough  lean-to  woodshed  at 
the  back  served  to  shelter  any  overflow 
of  possessions  which  might  trouble  the 
Whipples.  This  lean-to  was  given  over 
chiefly  to  traps,  fishpoles,  netting  gear,  and 
the  like. 

There  was  a  barn,  but  it  was  roofless 
and  long  since  disused. 

I  dare  say  the  original  Revolutionary 
Whipple  aimed  at  being  a  farmer,  like  the 


Father  and  Son.  45 

rest  of  his  neighbors.  Like  the  others,  he 
cleared  his  land,  got  in  his  crops,  built  a 
barn  for  his  cattle  and  produce,  and  ran 
up  rail  fences.  Perhaps  he  even  prospered 
thus,  as  prosperity  was  measured  in  those 
lean,  toilsome  times. 

But  either  in  his  day,  or  when  his  son 
Asa  was  a  comparatively  young  man,  the 
hand  of  fate  was  laid  on  the  Whipple  place. 
The  black  moss  came ! 

Strong  and  intelligent  farmers,  with  capi- 
tal behind  them,  can  successfully  fight  and 
chase  off  nowadays,  they  say,  this  sinister 
scourge  of  the  thin-soiled  northern  farm 
lands  on  the  forest's  edges.  But  forty 
years  ago,  and  even  much  later,  it  was  a 
common  saying  that  when  the  moss  came, 
the  man  must  go. 

Asa  Whipple  did  not  go.  He  let  farm- 
ing go  instead.  When  the  moss  had 
seized  upon  pasture  and  meadow  alike, 
nothing  was  simpler  than  to  sell  the  cows, 
and  allow  the  barn  to  fall 'to  pieces.  Much 
better    than    taking    anxious  thought   about 


46  The  Deserter. 

the  farm,  It  suited  Asa  to  turn  to  the 
woods  —  the  kindly,  lazy,  mysteriously 
tempting    woods. 

Here  were  no  back-aching  ploughs  and 
scythes,  no  laborious  hoeing  of  corn  and 
grubbing  for  roots,  and  painful  wrestling 
with  rain  and  drought  and  frost  —  and 
worst  of  all,  the  moss — for  pitiful  coppers. 
Here  instead  were  luscious  trout  for  the 
hook,  and  otter,  mink,  and  even  an  occa- 
sional beaver  for  the  trap ;  here  in  the 
greenwood,  to  the  trained  hunter,  was 
spread  a  never-ending  banquet  of  rare 
and  toothsome  meats,  from  the  game  birds, 
the  raccoon,  and  the  squirrel,  up  to  the 
fleet-heeled  deer  and  the  black  bear,  loung- 
ing his  clumsy  way  through  the  under- 
growth. 

Like  father,  like  son.  Time  came,  in- 
deed, when  the  woods  were  no  longer 
what  they  had  been,  and  when  the  influence 
of  advancing  civilization  compelled  Mose 
to  eke  out  a  scanty  living  for  his  father 
and    himself    by  hiring    out   a  week  or  two 


Father  arid  Son.  47 

now  and  then  during  busy  seasons  on  the 
farms  roundabout. 

He  did  this  as  seldom  as  he  could,  how- 
ever, and  he  never  pretended  that  he  liked 
to  do  it  at  all. 

Of  their  own  land,  the  Whipples  for 
years  had  cultivated  only  a  garden-patch 
close  about  the  house,  and  this  in  so  luke- 
warm a  fashion  that  the  net  results  —  some 
potatoes,  a  little  sweet  corn,  a  few  pump- 
kins, and  so  on  —  never  by  any  chance  saw 
them  through  the  winter. 

Why  they  did  not  sell  this  unproductive 
land  to  Elisha  Teachout,  who  evidently 
wanted  it,  instead  of  .  borrowing  money 
from  him  on  it  to  pay  taxes  for  it,  I  could 
never  understand.  Very  likely  they  did 
not  try  to  explain  it  to  themselves. 

But  it  was  the  fact,  nevertheless,  that  in 
July  of  1863  they  owed  Mr.  Teachout 
something  over  three  hundred  dollars  in 
accrued  interest  upon  the  mortgages  he 
held,  and  that  to  prevent  his  foreclosing 
and   evicting   them   from    the   house,   Mose 


48  The  Deserter. 

Whipple  went  to  the  war  as  Teachout's 
substitute. 

This  year  of  1863  had  still  a  week  of 
life  before  it  on  the  morning  in  question 
—  when  Mose  returned  from  the  war. 

He  had  made  across  the  stiff-crusted 
level  wastes  of  snow  from  Teachout's 
straight  as  the  bee's  flight,  even  before  the 
dawn  began  to  break.  He  had  heard  the 
talk  in  the  barn  about  the  certainty  of  his 
capture,  but  it  made  little  impression  on 
his  mind.  It  did  not  even  occur  to  him 
that  the  matter  concerned  him.  What  had 
stirred  him  was  Job  Parshall's  roundabout 
and  reluctant  admission  that  all  was  not 
right  with  the  old  man. 

He  had  waited  only  a  few  minutes  in 
the  haymow  after  Job  had  gone  to  the 
farm-house  before  the  temptation  to  be  off 
again  toward  home  mastered  him.  It  was 
silly  to  linger  here  for  food  when  the  goal 
was  so  close  at  hand. 

He  took  a  couple  of  English  turnips  from 
one  of  the  fodder  bins  to  eat  on  the  way, 


Father  and  Son.  49 

and  let  himself  cautiously  out  by  the  rear 
door  of  the  cow-barn. 

It  was  still  quite  dark  and  bitterly  cold, 
but  he  started  briskly  off.  After  he  had 
left  the  barnyard  an  idea  occurred  to  him. 
His  father  might  be  perishing  of  hunger! 
He  turned  and  bent  his  steps  back  across 
the  yard  to  the  hen-house,  opened  the  door, 
and  crept  in.  A  cackling  murmur  fell  upon 
the  darkened  silence,  rising  all  at  once  into 
a  harsh  and  strident  squawking,  then  ceas- 
ing abruptly. 

Mose  emerged  upon  the  instant,  shut  and 
hooked  the  door,  and  started  to  run,  stuffing 
a  big,  limp  and  shapeless  object  into  his 
coat  pocket. 

When  he  had  rapped  upon  and  rattled 
vigorously  for  a  third  time  the  window  on 
the  north  side  of  the  house  he  had  jour- 
neyed so  far  and  risked  so  much  to  return 
to,  Mose  was  conscious  of  a  heavy,  sudden 
sinking  of  the  heart.  That  was  the  bed- 
room window;  how  was  it  his  father  had 
not  heard  him.? 


50  The  Deserter. 

He  knocked  once  more,  more  loudly 
than  before,  and  bent  his  head  to  listen. 
No  answer  came. 

After  a  minute's  waiting  he  walked 
around  to  the  front  of  the  house.  In  the 
broad  daylight  which  had  spread  itself  now 
over  the  white  landscape,  he  noticed  some- 
thing he  had  missed  before.  There  had 
been  no  path  cut  through  from  the  house 
to  the  road.  The  frozen  drifts  lay  packed 
as  they  had  fallen  upon  the  doorsill.  There 
was  no  mark  of  footsteps  save  his  own. 
The  window-panes  were  opaque  with  frost. 

Mose  tried  the  latch.  It  yielded  readily, 
and  he  entered.  The  light  inside  was  so 
dim,  after  the  morning  glow  on  the  snow 
without,  that  it  was  hard  at  first  to  make 
out  the  room,  familiar  as  it  was  to  him. 
Apparently  there  was  no  one  there. 

A  curious  change  of  some  sort  there 
had  been,  though.  Mose  shut  the  door 
and  walked  across  to  the  stove,  instinc- 
tively holding  his  hands  over  it.  So  dull 
a   semblance    of   warmth  radiated  up  from 


Father  and  Son.  51 

the  griddles  that  he  put  a  finger  on  the 
metal.     It  was  only  blood-warm. 

Some  one  had  left  a  fire  here  an  hour 
ago.  Where  was  his  father.?  What  had 
happened } 

Then  Mose  saw  what  it  was  that  had 
at  the  outset  vaguely  puzzled  him.  The 
straw  tick  had  been  brought  from  the  bed 
in  the  other  room  and  spread  there  on 
the  floor  behind  the  stove.  It  was  cov- 
ered with  bedding  and  old  clothes,  and 
under  these  — 

In  a  flash  Mose  was  on  his  knees  beside 
the  improvised  bed,  and  had  pushed  away 
the  coverings  at  the  top.  There  was  dis- 
closed before  him  the  head  of  a  man 
asleep  —  a  head  which  he  scarcely  recog- 
nized at  first  sight,  so  profuse  and  dishev- 
elled were  its  masses  of  white  hair  and 
beard,  so  pinched  to  ghastliness  the  waxen 
features. 

"  He  is  dead ! "  Mose  heard  himself  say 
aloud,  in  a  voice  that  sounded  not  at  all 
his  own. 


52  The  Deserter. 

But  no ;  there  was  warmth,  and  a  fee- 
ble flicker  of  pulse  at  the  shrunken  wrist 
which  he  instinctively  fumbled  for  under 
the  bedclothes. 

"  Father !  Father  !  "  Mose  called,  bending 
till  his  lips  touched  the  white  hair.  "Wake 
up  !    I've  come  back  !    it's  me  —  Mose  !  " 

The  faintest  stir  of  life  passed  over  the 
corpse-like  face,  and  old  Asa  opened  his 
eyes.  It  did  not  seem  as  though  he  saw 
his  son,  or  anything  else.  His  whitened 
lips  moved,  emitting  some  husky,  unintelli- 
gible sounds.  Mose,  stooping  still  lower, 
strained  his  ears  to  piece  together  these 
terrible  words :  — 

"  Starved — many  days  —  don't  tell  Mose !" 

With  a  cry  of  rage  and  horror  Mose 
sprang  to  his  feet.  The  things  to  be 
done  mapped  themselves,  in  the  stress  of 
this  awful  situation,  with  lightning  swift- 
ness before  his  brain.  He  strode  to  the 
woodshed  door  and  opened  it.  Two  sides 
of  the  old  lean-to  were  gone,  and  the 
snow  was  drifted  thick  across  the  floor. 


Father  and  Son.  53 

Mose  realized  that  the  shed  had  gone 
for  fuel,  and  in  another  minute  he  had 
torn  down  half  the  roof,  and  was  crushing 
the  boards  to  splinters  under  his  heels. 

With  the  same  fierce  haste  he  started 
the  fire  blazing  again ;  got  out  an  old 
frying-pan  from  under  the  snow,  and  put  it, 
filled  with  ice  to  be  melted  into  water,  on 
one  of  the  open  griddle  holes;  hacked  the 
remaining  turnip  into  slices,  and  then  be- 
gan at  the  fowl,  stripping  the  feathers  off 
in  handfuls,  and  dismembering  it  as  fast 
as  he  cleared  the  skin  from  joint  to  joint, 
filling  the  rusty  old  pan  to  the  brim. 

Even  as  he  worked  thus,  and  after  the 
water  was  steaming,  and  the  rude  stew 
under  way,  he  kept  an  eager  and  appre- 
hensive eye  upon  the  bed  behind  the 
stove.     No  token  of  life  was  forthcoming. 

He  could  not  hear  his  father  breathe, 
even  when  he  bent  over  him ;  but  no 
doubt  that  was  on  account  of  the  prodi- 
gious spluttering  and  crackling  which  the 
fire   kept   up.     Through    the    other  griddle 


54  The  Deserter. 

hole  he  continually  thrust  in  fresh,  dry- 
kindlings  to  swell  the  blaze. 

He  had  learned  some  new  things  about 
cooking  in  the  army  —  among  others  the 
value  of  a  pot-lid  in  hurrying  forward  the 
stew.  He  looked  about  for  a  cover  for 
the  frying-pan.  There  was  no  such  thing 
in  the  house,  but  he  found  in  the  shed  an 
old  sheet-iron  snow-shovel,  and  made  the 
blade  of  this  serve,  with  a  nail-hole 
punched   through  it  to   let  out  the  steam. 

In  his  researches  he  was  2:lad  to  run 
upon  some  salt,  because  it  would  help 
toward  making  the  mess  on  the  stove  pal- 
atable. But  it  would  not  be  easy  to  tell 
with  what  emotions  he  discovered  that 
there  was  absolutely  not  another  eatable 
thing  in  the  house. 

The  room  had  grown  decently  warm 
again,  under  the  influence  of  the  roaring 
fire,  and  now  it  began  to  be  filled  with  what 
Mose  believed  to  be  a  most  delicious  odor. 

The  conviction,  though  to  any  one  else 
it   might   well    have    seemed    unwarranted, 


Father  and  Son.  55 

was  pardonable  in  Mose  perhaps,  for  he 
himself  had  tasted  his  last  warm  meal 
nearly  sixty  hours  before. 

He  munched  the  turnip  peelings  almost 
contentedly  as  he  recalled  this  fact.  Per- 
haps there  would  be  some  of  the  stew  left, 
after  the  old  man  had  eaten  his  fill.  If 
not,  there  were  parts  of  the  fowl  which 
could  still   be   utilized. 

An  absurd  sort  of  fantasy  —  a  kind  of 
foolish  day-dream  —  began  all  at  once  to 
rise  before  him.  He  seemed  to  see  him- 
self eating  the  whole  of  that  glorious  stew, 
lingering  with  all  his  soul  over  the  luxury 
of  each  piping-hot  mouthful,  and  giving 
his  father  none  at  all. 

This  visionary  thing  grew  so  upon  him, 
so  gripped  and  enthralled  his  mind,  that 
it  made  him  dizzy  and  faint  to  put  it 
away  from  him.  When,  a  few  minutes 
later,  the  smell  of  burning  warned  him 
that  the  cooking  was  done,  and  he  lifted 
the  pan  from  the  stove,  this  brutal  tempta- 
tion   rushed    savagely    at    hian    again.      He 


56  The  Deserter. 

set  the  pan  on  the  table,  and  walked  away, 
not  daring  to  lift  the  cover. 

There  were  two  or  three  old  plates  on 
the  shelf,  and  a  tea-cup.  Mose  got  them 
all  down,  and  arrayed  them  on  the  table, 
with  such  cutlery  and  spoons  as  he  could 
find.  He  made  a  motion  then  to  take  off 
the  improvised  lid  from  the  frying-pan,  but 
once  more  drew  back.  It  was  as  if  he 
could  not  trust  himself. 

He  knelt  by  the  bedside  again,  now,  and 
putting  his  arm  under  his  father's  neck 
sought  to  raise  him  to  a  more  upright 
posture.  Old  Asa  opened  his  eyes  as  be- 
fore, and  made  an  effort  to  whisper  some- 
thing, but  he  lay  an  almost  inert  weight 
in  his  son's  arms. 

Mose  swung  the  tick  round,  propped  the 
end  of  it  up  against  the  wall  and  raised  his 
father  into  a  half-sitting  posture. 

In  this  position  the  old  man's  face  took 
on  a  sudden  expression  of  interest  and 
reviving  intelligence.  He  had  begun  to 
smell  the  savor  of  the  food. 


Father  and  Son.  57 

Looking  upon  that  pallid,  vacant,  starved 
face,  and  wasted,  helpless  form,  Mose,  starv- 
ing himself,  felt  strong  enough  to  defy  the 
most  appetizing  stew  in  the  world.  He 
took  off  the  cover  with  decision,  and 
dipped  the  tea-cup  up  half  full  of  the 
smoking  contents.  It  was  too  hot,  evi- 
dently, to  be  given  to  the  old  man  at  once, 
and  it  was  also  very  thick. 

Mose  took  it  out  to  the  dismantled 
woodshed,  and  spooned  in  snow  until  it 
seemed  of  the  right  temperature  and  con- 
sistency. He  dipped  a  little  finger  into  it 
to  further  satisfy  himself,  but  he  would  not 
even  lick  that  finger  afterward.  It  was 
too  dangerous  to  think  about. 

Mose  fed  his  father  as  a  mother  might 
a  baby  —  watching  solicitously  to  see  that 
he  did  not  eat  too  fast  or  choke  himself. 
After  the  first  cupful,  he  brought  a  chair 
to  sit  in,  and  held  the  tick  against  his 
knee  while  old  Asa,  leaning  more  lightly 
upon  it,  helped  himself. 

There  was  a  little  left  at  last  for   Mose, 


58  The  Deserter. 

and  he  swallowed  it  gravely,  with  a  por- 
tentous rush  of  sensations  within,  but 
keeping  up  as  best  he  could  an  indifferent 
exterior.  It  left  him  still  hungry,  but  he 
had  much  more  important  things  to  dwell 
upon  than  that. 

The  meal  worked  wonders  upon  the  old 
man.  The  combined  influences  of  food 
and  warmth  seemed  for  a  few  minutes  to 
send  him  off  to  sleep  again. 

Mose  sat  looking  down  upon  him  in 
silence,  and  noting  that  something  like 
color  was  stealing  back  into  his  face. 

All  at  once,  however,  Asa  Whipple  sat 
upright,  lifted  his  hands  to  brush  back 
the  hair  from  his  forehead,  and,  turning 
his  face  up  to  look  at  his  son,  smiled. 
There  was  no  lack  of  comprehension  in 
his  gaze.  He  had  regained  his  tongue  as 
well.     He  patted  Mose's  knee  as  he  spoke. 

"  Mose,"  he  said,  in  a  voice  strangely 
altered  and  aged,  but  clear  enough,  "  I'm 
kind  o'  'shamed  to  tell  it,  but  I'd  laid 
down    here    just    to    go    to  sleep  for  good. 


Father  and  Son.  59 

I  thought  for  quite  a  spell  there,  after  you 
come  in,  that  I  was  dreaming  —  sort  o' 
out  o'  my  head,  you  know," 

"  How  did  you  come  to  let  yourself 
down  like  this,  dad  ?  "  was  the  only  reply 
Mose  had  at  hand. 

"  Rheumatiz,"  Asa  explained.  "  It  laid 
me  up  —  I  couldn't  git  around,  an'  no- 
body come  near  me,  I  ain't  seen  a  soul 
since  the  big  snowfall  —  up'ards  of  a  fort- 
night. But  —  but  it's  all  right  now,  ain't 
it,  Mose }  An'  to  think  o'  your  comin' 
home  here  like  this,  right  in  the  nick  o' 
time.  How  did  you  come  to  git  off, 
Mose .? " 

For  answer  there  fell  the  crunchinor  sound 
of  footsteps  on  the  crusted  snow  outside, 
then  of  a  loud,  peremptory  knock  on  the 
door. 


CHAPTER   IV. 

THE    "  MEANEST    WORD." 

JWIOSE  WHIPPLE  had  lifted  his  head 
in  apprehensive  inquiry  at  the  sound 
of  the  footsteps  outside  the  door  of  the 
cabin.  He  sprang  to  his  feet  when  the 
sharp  knock  on  the  door  followed.  Hold- 
ing a  hand  downward  with  outspread  fin- 
gers as  a  warning  to  silence,  he  tiptoed  out 
to  the  middle  of  the  room,  then  paused  and 
listened. 

The  knock  came  again,  bolder  and  more 
peremptory  still. 

Vague  notions  of  resistance  were  shaping 
themselves  in  Mose's  mind.  He  glanced 
up  at  the  shot-gun  hanging  on  the  chimney 
behind  the  stovepipe,  and  in  another  in- 
stant had  it  down,  with  his  thumb  on  the 
hammer. 

60 


•Gimme  that  Gun!" 


The  ''Meanest   Wordr  63 

"  Loaded  ? "  he  asked  in  a  whisper,  test- 
ing the  percussion-cap  with  his  nail. 

The  old  man  nodded.  Then  he,  too, 
laboriously  rose  to  his  feet.  Bent  as  his 
form  was,  he  stood  a  taller  man  than  his 
son.  He  rested  one  hand  on  the  table  for 
support,  and  stretched  out  the  other  with 
a  masterful  gesture. 

"  Gimme  that  gun ! "  he  said,  in  brusque 
command.  Then  covering  Mose  from  head 
to  foot,  he  added,  slowly,  "  I'd  ruther  have 
starved  a  hundred  times  over  than  had  you 
do  this  sort  o'  thing ! " 

Mose  had  sheepishly  laid  the  weapon  on 
the  table.  He  walked  now  with  a  sullen 
air  to  the  door,  lifted  the  hook,  and  put  his 
hand  on  the  latch. 

"  Let  me  in  out  of  the  cold,  can't  ye  ? "  a 
shrill  voice  complained  outside.  "  It's  only 
me,  you  gump  !  " 

Mose's  face  brightened.  "  Why,  it's  only 
young  Job  Parshall,  after  all !  "  he  said,  and 
threw  the  door  wide  open. 

The   boy   pushed    past    Mose    without   a 


64  The  Deserter. 

word,  and  marching  across  the  room  to  the 
stove  held  his  red  fingers  over  the  griddles. 
He  lifted  them  a  little  for  inspection  after  a 
minute's  silence,  and  screwed  his  shoulders 
about  in  token  of  the  pain  they  gave  him. 

"  I  couldn't  run  with  my  hands  in  my 
pockets,"  he  said.  "  I  shouldn't  wonder  if 
they  was  froze.     That's  just  my  luck." 

Mose  advanced  to  the  stove,  and  looked 
at  Job's  hands  critically.  "  That  little  fin- 
ger there  is  a  trifle  tetched,  I  guess,"  he 
said.  "  It'll  be  sore  for  a  day  or  two,  that's 
all.  The  rest  are  all  right."  Then  he 
added,  noting  the  boy's  crimson  cheeks  and 
panting;  breast,  "  Why,  sonny,  you  must  'a' 
run  the  whole  way !  " 

Job  nodded  assent,  and  turned  his  hands 
palm  upward.  "  Every  inch  of  the  way," 
he  said  between  heavy  breaths. 

Old  Asa  had  sunk  again  into  a  chair,  and 
sat  gazing  in  turn  at  Mose  and  the  boy. 
The  fire  which  had  glowed  in  his  eyes 
when  he  had  confronted  his  son  had  died 
away   again.      He   was    visibly   striving    not 


The  ''Meanest  Wordr  65 

to  tremble,  and  the  glance  he  bent  from 
one  to  the  other  was  wistful  and  shame- 
faced. 

"  I  suppose  you've  brought  some  news," 
he  remarked  at  last  to  Job. 

The  boy  nodded  again,  twisting  his  fin- 
gers experimentally  in  the  heat.  "  When  I 
catch  my  breath,   I'll  tell  ye,"  he  said. 

There  was  a  moment's  awkward  silence ; 
then  Asa  Whipple,  speaking  in  low,  de- 
liberate tones,  rid  his  mind  of  some  of  its 
burden, 

"  My  son  Mose  here,"  he  said  gravely, 
"  didn't  use  to  be  a  coward.  I  didn't  bring 
him  up  to  be  no  coward.  Seems  to  me 
you  can  bring  up  a  boy  so't  he'll  be  honest 
and  straightforward  and  square  right  up  to 
the  last  minute,  and  then  lo  and  behold ! 
he  cuts  up  some  low-down,  mean  dido  or 
other  that  makes  you  'shamed  to  look  folks 
in  the  face. 

"  My  father  fit  in  the  Revolution,  and  so 
did  my  mother's  father  and  his  brothers,  ^- 
their    name   was    Lapham,    and    they   lived 


66  The  Deserter. 

in  Rhode  Island,  —  and  my  older  brother, 
Jason,  he  was  killed  up  at  Sackett's  Harbor 
in  the  1812  War  before  he  come  of  age; 
and  they  ain't  one  of  'em  but  'ud  turn  in 
his  grave  to  think  they  was  a  coward  and 
a  deserter  in  the  family ! " 

Mose  stood  behind  the  stove,  stealing 
furtive  glances  at  the  old  man  during  this 
harangue.  Once  or  twice  he  opened  his 
lips  as  if  to  speak,  but  either  no  words 
would  come,  or  he  thought  better  of  it. 

But  Job  listened  with  obvious  impatience. 
He  had  quite  regained  his  breath.  "  Mose 
ain't  no  coward  !  "  he  broke  in  vehemently. 
"  It  took  a  mighty  sight  more  pluck  to 
light  out  there,  of  a  night,  and  come  way 
off  up  here  just  to  see  how  you  were  get- 
tin'  on,  and  have  to  hide  for  his  life,  than 
it  would  to  have  stayed  right  still  where 
he  was,  with  no  fightin'  and  no  work,  and 
three  square  meals  a  day." 

"  You  might  say  four,  a'most,  countin' 
supper,"  Mose  suggested  softly.    * 

Old  Asa  Whipple  seemed  impressed  with 


The  ''Meanest   Word:'  67 

this  view  of  the  situation,  and  pondered  it 
for  a  Httle  in  silence. 

"  What  I  come  over  to  say  was,"  remarked 
Job,  more  placidly,  "  that  they're  out  lookin' 
for  you,  Mose.  Two  men  drove  up  in  a 
cutter  just  after  breakfast  —  one  of  'em's 
Norm'  Hazzard,  the  deputy  marshal  down 
at  Octavius,  and  the  other  fellow's  name 
is  Moak,  I  b'lieve,  and  they've  stopped 
to  Teachout's  to  breakfast.  They  started 
from  Octavius  before  daylight,  and  they 
was  about  froze  solid  by  the  time  they  got 
to  'Lishe's.  They  took  out  their  horse, 
and  they've  got  so  much  thawin'  out  to  do 
themselves,  I  reckon  they  ain't  more'n 
about  started  now,  if  they  have  that." 

"You  come  straight?"  asked  Mose. 

"Well,  you'd  better  believe  I  did !  I 
scooted  'cross  lots  like  greased  lightnin'  the 
minute  they  went  in  t'  the  house.  It's  a 
good  hour  'round  by  the  road,  even  when 
it's  all  open.  It's  drifted  now  all  the  way 
from  the  sash  factory  down  to  Taft's  place, 
and    it's    slow    work     gettin'    through    the 


68  The  Deserter. 

fields.  As  I  figure  it,  you've  got  more'n 
an  hour's  leeway." 

The  two  men  looked  at  each  other  as 
they  listened,  and  they  kept  up  the  mutual 
gaze  after  the  boy  had  stopped. 

"  'Pears  to  me,  dad,"  Mose  finally  vent- 
ured in  a  deferential  way,  "that  you  don't 
seem  to  take  this  thing  quite  in  the  right 
spirit.  I  tell  you  straight  out,  if  it  was 
the  last  word  I  ever  spoke,  I  ain't  done 
nothin'  I'm  ashamed  of.  A  man  can't  say 
no  more'n  that." 

"  Accordin'  to  the  way  I  was  brought 
up,"  replied  old  Asa,  doggedly,  "  they  ain't 
no  other  such  an  all-fired,  pesky  mean 
name  for  a  man  in  the  dictionary  as 
'desarter.' " 

"  Well,  anyway,"  retorted  Mose,  "  I'd 
ruther  be  called  '  desarter '  myself  than  have 
you  be  called  '  starved  to  death.'  So  far's 
I  can  make  out,  if  it  hadn't  ben  one,  it 
'ud  ben  t'other." 

The  old  man's  glance  abruptly  sought 
the  floor,  and  lingered   there.     The   others, 


The  ''Meanest  Wordr  69 

as  they  watched  him,  could  see  the  muscles 
of  his  down-bent  face  twitching, 

"  Besides,  they  didn't  need  me  down  there 
just  now,"  Mose  went  on  in  more  voluble 
self-defence,  "  no  more'n  a  frog  needs  a  tail. 
An'  besides  that,  they  played  it  monstrous 
low-down  on  me.  That  German  fellow  that 
used  to  work  at  the  tannery,  he  was  my 
sergeant,  and  he  kept  them  big  eyes  of 
his  skinned  for  me  all  day  long.  Him 
and  me  never  hitched  very  well  down  at 
the  mills,  you  know,  and  he  took  it  out 
of  me  whenever  he  got  a  chance. 

"  He  got  all  the  officers  down  on  me. 
One  day  they'd  say  I'd  burnt  the  coffee, 
and  the  next  day  that  my  gun  was  dirty, 
and  after  that  that  I  was  a  'malingerer,* 
—  that's  officers'  slang  for  a  shirk,  —  and 
so  on ;  and  every  time  it  meant  that  some 
of  my  pay  got  stopped.  That's  why  I 
never  sent  you  any  money. 

"  They  worked  it  so't  I  never  got  more'n 
about  ten  shillings  out  of  my  thirteen  dollars, 
and  that  I  owed  twice  over  before  I  crot  it." 

o 


70  The  Deserter. 

Old  Asa  was  looking  into  his  son's  face 
once  more,  and  he  nodded  comprehend- 
ingly  as  the  other  paused.  "  We  never 
did  git  a  fair  show,  like  other  men,"  he 
remarked. 

"  But  I  could  'a'  stood  all  that,"  con- 
tinued Mose.  "  What  riled  me  was  when 
Bill  Rood  got  a  letter  sayin'  that  you  was 
poorly,  and  you  stopped  writin';  and  then 
I  took  pains  and  behaved  extra  well,  so't 
even  the  Dutchman  couldn't  put  his  finger 
on  me.  And  then  I  got  a  chance  one 
day,  and  I  asked  one  of  the  lieutenants 
that  I'd  kind  o'  curried  favor  with,  doin' 
odd  jobs  for  him  and  so  on,  if  he  couldn't 
git  me  a  furlough,  just  to  run  home  and 
see  how  you  was  gittin'  on." 

"  I  reckon  you  never  got  that,   Mose." 

"  No,  dad.  They  was  givin'  'em  right 
and  left  to  other  fellows,  and  the  lieu- 
tenant said  he  guessed  he  could  manage 
it.  I  don't  know  how  hard  he  tried,  but 
a  few  days  after  that  I  see  the  Dutchman 
grinnin'   at    me,    and    I    felt    in    my   bones 


The  ''Meanest  Word!''  71 

that  the  jig  was  up.  Sure  enough,  they 
wouldn't  let  me  have  a  furlough  because 
I'd  been  euchred  out  of  my  pay.  They 
wa'n't  no  other  reason." 

"No,"  said  the  old  man,  "that  was 
always  the  way.  I  guess  me  and  you 
ought  to  be  pretty  well  used  to  gittin' 
the  worst  of  it,  by  this  time.  There's  a 
text  in  the  Bible  that's  our  own  private 
family  property,  as  much  as  if  it  had 
'  Whipple '  marked  on  it  in  big  letters. 
It's  that  one  that  says  that  when  a  man 
ain't  got  anything,  he  gits  took  away  from 
him  even  what  he's  got.  That's  me,  Mose, 
and  it's  you,  too." 

Mose  had  quite  recovered  his  confidence 
now. 

"  Of  course,  if  there'd  ben  any  fightin' 
goin'  on,  it'd  ben  different,"  he  explained, 
"  but  right  in  the  middle  of  our  winnin' 
everything  along  in  November,  after  we'd 
chased  the  Johnnies  across  the  Rappahan- 
nock and  the  Rapidan,  and  was  havin'  it 
all    our    own    way  —  and    in    spite    ot    the 


72  The  Deserter. 

rain  freezin'  as  it  fell,  and  no  shelter  and 
marchin'  till  your  feet  was  ready  to  fall 
off,  we  all  liked  it  first-rate  —  along  come 
orders  for  us  to  go  back  again  to  winter 
quarters  around  Brandy  Station.  So  far 
as  I  could  see,  it  was  all  station  and  no 
brandy.  And  then  the  new  drafted  men, 
they  behaved  like  sin  in  camp,  and  orders 
got  stricter,  and  my  Dutchman  piled  it  onto 
me  thicker  and  thicker,  and  I  got  to  frettin' 
about  you  —  and  so  —  so  I  —  I  lit  out." 

"  You'd  better  bes^in  fi2:g:erin'  on  lio^htin' 
out  agin,"  said  the  practical  Job.  "  I  sup- 
pose you'll  take  to  the  woods,  won't  you } " 

Mose  nodded,  and  reached  his  hand  out 
for  the  gun.  "  Yes,"  he  said,  "  five  minutes' 
start'll  be  all  I  need.  Once  I  git  across 
the  creek  I'm  all  right.  One  thing's  lucky, 
there's  plenty  of  powder  and  shot  in  the 
cupboard  there,  I  see.  I  suppose,  if  worst 
comes  to  worst,  I  could  get  through  the 
woods  up  to  Canada.  But  see  here,  —  this 
is  a  good  deal  more  important,  —  what  are 
you  going  to  do,  dad,  after  I'm  gone  '^ " 


The  ''Meanest  Wordy  73 

Old  Asa  had  hardly  given  this  impor- 
tant question  a  thought  before.  As  it  was 
forced  upon  him  now,  his  mind  reverted 
mechanically  to  that  strange  awakening, 
when  he  lay  in  the  starved  half-stupor  on 
the  very  threshold  of  death,  and  Mose 
came  in,  like  some  good  angel  of  a  dream, 
to  bring  him  back  to  life  again.  A  rush 
of  tenderness,  almost  of  pride,  suddenly 
suffused  the  old  man's  brain. 

"  Mose,"  he  said,  all  at  once,  "  t  guess 
I  talked  more  or  less  like  a  fool,  here 
awhile  back.  Perhaps  some  folks  are  en- 
titled to  blame  you  for  turnin'  up  here, 
this  mornin'  —  but  I  ain't  one  of  'em,  and 
I  ought  to  known  better.  I'm  stronger, 
my  boy,  ever  so  much  stronger,  for  seein' 
you  and  —  eatin'  a  good  meal  again.  You'll 
see  —  I'll  be  as  sound  again  as  a  butternut. 
I  bet  I  could  walk  this  minute  to  the 
brids^e  without  a  break." 

"  But  that  wouldn't  feed  you,  after  you 
got  there,"  objected  Mose.  "  Of  course  if 
I  could   hanor  around  in  the   neisrhborhood, 


74  The  Deserter. 

and  drop  in  every  now  and  then  to  keep 
an  eye  on  you,  it  'ud  be  different.  But 
they're  sure  to  watch  the  place,  and  with 
me  caught  you'd  be  worse  off  than  ever. 
I'd  give  myself  up  this  minute  if  only  I 
knew  you'd  be  all  right.  But  that's  the 
hang  of  it.  There's  no  mistake,  dad,"  he 
added,  with  a  rueful  sort  of  grin,  "  the  last 
bell  was  a-ringin'  for  you  when  I  turned 
up  here,  this  mornin'." 

It  was  characteristic  of  these  two  men, 
born  and  bred  here  in  the  robust  air  of 
the  forest's  borders,  that  as  they  confronted 
this  dilemma,  not  the  shadow  of  a  notion 
of  that  standing  alternative,  the  county- 
house,  crossed  either  mind.  Even  if  Mose 
could  have  thought  of  it,  he  would  never 
have  dared  suggest  it  to  Asa. 

"  Come,  you'd  better  •  be  gittin'  together 
what  you're  goin'  to  take  with  you,"  broke 
in  Job,  peremptorily.  "  You've  got  none 
too  much  time  to  spare." 

"  Yes,  I  know,"  said  Mose,  with  hesita- 
tion ;  "  but  the  old  man  here  —  that  wor- 
ries me." 


The  ''Meanest   Word."  75 

"  You  just  'tend  to  your  own  knittin'," 
was  the  boy's  reply.  "  Asa  and  me'll  man- 
age for  ourselves  all  rio^ht." 

Old  Asa  Whipple  opened  his  eyes  wide 
—  not  at  surprise  at  hearing  his  Christian 
name  fall  so  glibly  from  the  boy's  tongue, 
for  that  is  the  custom  of  the  section,  but 
with  bewilderment  at  his  meaning. 

"  What  on  earth  are  you  drivin'  at .'' " 
demanded  Mose,  no  whit  less  puzzled. 

"Well,"  said  Job,  with  deliberation,  "I've 
kind  o'  soured  on  that  Teachout  job  of 
mine.  I've  had  it  in  my  mind  to  quit  all 
along,  when  I  got  the  chance,  and  I  guess 
this  is  about  as  good  as  any.  I've  got 
along  toward  twenty  dollars  saved  up,  and 
there's  three  days'  work  a  week  for  me  at 
the  cheese-factory  whenever  I  want  ,to  take 
it,  and  I  could  go  to  school  the  other  days, 
and  both  places  are  handier  to  git  at  from 
here  than  they  are  from  Teachout's.  So 
I'll  rig  up  a  bed  and  so  on  here,  and  I'll 
look  out  for  the  old  man.  But  do  you  go 
ahead,  and  git  out ! " 


76  The  Deserter. 

It  is  another  custom  of  these  parts  to 
be  undemonstrative  in  the  face  of  the  un- 
expected. 

Mose  merely  clapped  his  hand  on  Job's 
shoulder,  and  said,  "  You  won't  ever  be 
sorry  for  it,  sonny,"  which  had  much  more 
of  loose  prediction  than  of  pledge  about 
it,  yet  seemed  quite  sufficient  for  them 
both. 

The  old  man  said  nothing  at  all,  but 
sat  bending  forward  in  his  chair,  his  gaze 
fastened  upon  every  move  his  son  made 
about  the  room.  For  everything  Mose 
did  now  spoke  plainly  of  another  parting, 
more  sombre  and  sinister  than  the  last. 
A  soldier  may  come  back,  but  how  can 
one  hope  fur  the  return  of  a  deserter  ? 

Mose's  old  instincts  as  a  woodsman  rose 
superior  to  the  exigencies  of  a  life  and 
death  flight.  He  prepared  as  if  for  a  holi- 
day camping  jaunt  into  the  wilderness  — 
in  a  hurried  manner,  but  forgetting  noth- 
ing. 

He    made  a  pile  of    things   on   the   table 


The  ''Meanest  Wordy  yj 

—  all  the  powder  and  shot  in  the  house, 
most  of  the  salt,  some  old  stockings,  a  tin 
cup,  fork  and  spoon,  and  what  matches  he 
could  find  —  and  then  stowed  them  away 
in  flasks  and  his  pockets,  along  with  a 
whole  tangled  mass  of  lines,  hooks  and 
catgut  fishing  gear. 

From  under  the  snow  in  the  dismantled 
shed  he  unearthed  a  smaller  frying-pan 
and  two  steel  traps,  and  slung  these  with 
a  string  through  handle  and  chains  across 
his  shoulder.  Then  he  took  up  the  gun 
and  was  ready. 

"  I  guess  this'll  see  me  through,"  he  said 
lightly. 

Old  Asa  gazed  at  him  through  dimmed 
eyes.  "  No,  you  must  take  a  blanket, 
Mose,"  he  said.  "  I  won't  hear  no  for  an 
answer  —  you  must!  There's  plenty  more 
for  us.  If  they  ain't,  we  can  git  more. 
They're  cheap  as  dirt.  And  Mose,"  the 
old  man  rose  from  his  chair  as  he  spoke, 
"  I  was  a-goin'  to  ask  you  to  sing  for  me 
afore  you  went,  but  I  —  I  guess  we'd  better 


78  The  Deserter. 

let  that  go  till  we  meet  again.  You'll  be 
all  right  in  the  woods  — " 

"  Why,  I  know  twenty  places,"  put  in 
Mose,  "  where  I'll  be  as  snug  as  a  bug  in 
a  rug.  I'll  make  straight  for  a  deer  yard. 
Mebbe  "  —  he  chuckled  at  the  thought  — 
"  I'll  be  bringing  you  in  some  venison 
some  o'  these  nights.  Prob'ly  I'll  hang 
it  up  on  a  tree  —  the  old  butternut  by  the 
fork  —  so't  Job  can  come  out  and  git  it 
in  the  mornin'.  And  in  the  spring  —  why 
you  must  come  in  the  spring  and  —  and 
be  with  me  in  the  woods." 

The  old  man's  strength  had  waned  once 
more,  and  he  seated  himself. 

"  Mebbe,"  was  all  he  said,  in  a  dubious 
voice,  and  with  his  head  bowed  on  his 
breast. 

He  did  not  lift  hfs  head,  when  Mose 
shook  hands  with  him;  he  did  not  raise 
his  glance  to  follow  him,  either,  when,  with 
the  traps  and  frying-pan  clattering  about 
his  neck,  Mose  let  himself  out  by  the  shed 
door  and  was  gone. 


The  ''Meanest  Word:'  79 

He  did  not  even  seem  to  hear  when, 
two  or  three  minutes  later,  the  reverberat- 
ing crack  of  revolver  shots  —  one  !  two  ! 
three  !  four  !  five  !  —  set  the  echoes  clam- 
oring all  around  the  Whipple  house. 


CHAPTER   V. 

THE    DEPUTY    MARSHAL. 

A  S  soon  as  Job  Parshall  heard  the  sound 
of  firearms  outside  the  Whipple  cabin, 
he  darted  to  the  nearer  of  the  front  win- 
dows, scratched  away  some  of  the  thick 
frost  from  one  of  its  panes,  and  put  his 
eye  to  the  aperture. 

A  horse  and  cutter  had  come  to  a  halt 
on  the  road,  a  few  rods  short  of  the  house. 
The  animal  had  been  frightened  by  the 
firing,  and  was  still  showing  signs  of  ex- 
citement, with  lifted  ears  and  stiffened 
forelegs. 

The  man,  whom  Job  understood  to  be 
Moak,  stood  at  the  horse's  head,  holding 
the  bridle  tightly,  but  looking  intently  the 
other  way  across  the  fields  in  the  direction 
of  his  companion,  the  redoubtable  deputy 
marshal,  who  was  not  in  sight. 

80 


The  Deputy  Marshal.  8i 

The  boy  stole  to  the  other  end  of  the 
room,  and  cautiously  opened  the  shed 
door  by  as  much  as  the  width  of  his 
face.  Here  he  could  cover  at  a  glance 
the  flat,  gently  sloping  waste  of  snow 
which  stretched  unbroken  backward  from 
the  house  to  the  gray  fringe  of  woods  that 
marked  the  edge  of  the  ravine.  Beyond 
that  belt  of  timbered  horizon,  with  its 
shadows  silvery  soft  in  the  brilliant  morn- 
ing sunlight,  lay  sunken  in  its  hollow  the 
ice-bound  brook. 

If  Mose  passed  this  stream  there  was 
before  him  the  real  forest  —  and  safety. 

The  black  figures  of  two  running  men 
moved  upon  this  broad  and  dazzlingly  white 
landscape.  The  farther  of  the  two  was 
now  so  far  away  that  he  seemed  a  mere 
dark  speck,  like  the  object  seen  from  the 
gun-line  of  a  turkey  shoot.  Perhaps  this 
simile  was  suggested  to  Job  by  the  fact 
that  the  other,  pausing  now  for  a  moment 
in  his  race,  straightened  an  arm  and  sent 
five  more   shots  flashing   after  the  fugitive. 


82  The  Deserter. 

Tenfold  that  number  of  echoes  came 
rolling  in  upon  one  another's  heels  through 
the  nipping  air  as  the  second  man  started 
again  to  run.  He  seemed  not  to  be  catch- 
ing up  with  his  prey  —  yes !  now  Mose  was 
lost  to  sight  in  the  woods,  and  his  pursuer 
was  not  half-way  there.  Yes !  and  now  the 
marshal  had  stopped,  hesitated,  and  turned 
about. 

The  deputy  marshal  retraced  his  steps 
over  the  broken  crust  slowly,  and  with  an 
air  of  dejection.  He  hung  his  head  as  he 
walked,  and  it  took  him  a  long  time  to 
reach  the  house.  When  he  came  into  the 
yard  he  seemed  not  to  look  toward  the 
house  at  all,  but  made  his  way  straight 
past  as  if  bound  for  the  road,  with  his 
attention  still  steadfastly  fixed  on  the  snow 
in  front  of  him. 

But  just  as  Job  had  jumped  to  the  con- 
clusion that  he  had  not  been  observed,  the 
deputy  marshal  called  in  a  loud,  peremptory 
aside  over  his  shoulder :  — 

"  Come  along  out  here,  boy !  " 


The  Deputy  Marshal.  83 

The  lad  had  no  course  but  to  obey.  He 
stole  a  quick,  backward  glance  to  where 
old  Asa  still  sat  motionless  with  bowed 
head  near  the  stove.  Then  noiselessly 
shutting  the  shed  door  behind  him,  he  fol- 
lowed out  into  the  road. 

"  It'll  be  all  right,"  the  deputy  marshal 
was  saying  to  his  companion  as  Job  came 
up.  "  He  can't  take  a  step  on  this  crust 
without  leavin'  a  mark,  'specially  now  that 
it's  goin'  to  melt  a  little.  I'll  land  him  in 
the  stone  jug  before  night,  or  you  can  call 
me  a  Dutchman  !  " 

Norman  Hazzard,  the  deputy  marshal, 
was  a  thin,  lithe,  active  man,  somewhere 
in  the  thirties,  with  a  long,  sun-browned 
face  and  a  square  jaw.  Although  his 
keen  eyes  were  of  a  light,  bluish  gray, 
one  thoug:ht  of  him  as  a  dark-corn- 
plexioned  person. 

Ever  since  Job  could  remember,  this 
man  had  been  arresting  people,  first  as  a 
sheriff's  officer,  then  as  an  army  detective. 
Looking  furtively  at  him  now  as  he  stood 


84  The  Deserter. 

at  the  horse's  head,  with  his  sharp  glance 
roving  the  distant  landscape  and  his 
under  lip  nursing  the  ends  of  his  sparse 
moustache  in  meditation,  the  boy  felt  that 
that  was  what  nature  intended  that  Norm 
Hazzard  should  be. 

The  whole  country  knew  him  by  sight, 
and  talked  about  the  risky  things  he  had 
done  in  the  line  of  his  duty,  and  the 
stern,  cold-blooded  pluck  with  which  he 
had  done  them. 

As  the  deputy  marshal  stood  thus  pon- 
dering the  situation,  he  rattled  together 
with  his  hand  some  heavy  metallic  objects 
in  one  of  his  overcoat  pockets.  The 
clanking  sound  they  gave  forth  fascinated 
the  boy. 

"  I  s'pose  them's  handcuffs  you've  got 
there  in  your  pocket } "  he  found  himself 
suddenly  impelled  to  remark.  It  was  only 
after  the  words  were  out  that  he  realized 
the  boldness  of  speaking  in  this  fierce 
presence  without  having  been  spoken  to. 

Hazzard  turned  his  head  obliquely  down- 


The  Deputy  Marshal.  85 

ward,  and  regarded  Job  with  a  sort  of 
ironical  scowl. 

"  They  ain't  for  you,  anyway,"  he  re- 
marked. "  I  guess  the  horsewhip'll  about 
suit  your  complaint." 

"No,  you  don't!"  replied  Job.  "You 
dassent  lay  a  linger  on  me  unless  I've 
done  something — I  know  that  much." 

The  deputy  marshal  emitted  a  chuclcie 
of  amused  contempt. 

"  Why,  you  blamed  little  runt,  you ! "  he 
said.  "  You've  done  mischief  enouo^h  this 
mornin'  to  git  thrashed  for  it  within  an 
inch  o'  your  life,  and  go  to  state's  prison 
into  the  bargain.  You  mind  your  p's  and 
q's  now  mighty  sharp,  or  it'll  be  the  end 
o    you  ! 

"  I  don't  see,  myself,"  put  in  Moak,  a 
bearded,  thickset,  middle-aged  man,  who 
drawled  his  words  lazily,  but  looked  as  if 
he  might  be  a  tough  customer  in  a  fight, 
"  I  don't  jest  make  out  how  you're  goin' 
to  catch  up  with  him,  even  if  he  does 
leave   tracks.       He's  got   a   big  start,   and 


86  The  Deserter. 

has  pretty  good  reasons  for  humpin'  him- 
self, and  if  he  can  keep  ahead  till  dark, 
he  knows  the  woods  in  the  night-time  a 
plaguy  sight  better'n  any  of  us  do." 

Hazzard  curled  his  lips  in  a  faint,  mo- 
mentary grin  of  superiority. 

"  Can't  we  get  snow-shoes } "   he   asked. 

The  word  had  an  evil  sound  to  Job's 
ears.  They  would  run  Mose  down,  sure 
enough,  with  those  terrible  aids  to  the 
pursuit. 

"  The  only  question  is,"  the  deputy  mar- 
shal ruminated  aloud,  "where '11  be  the 
nearest  place  to  git  the  shoes.  We'll 
hitch  the  horse  here  to  the  fence,  and 
take  a  look  at  the  house.  Did  you  ever 
see  such  a  tumble-down  place  in  all  your 
life.''  Here,  you  boy,  mog  along  there  in 
front  o'  me,  and  watch  what  you  do  !  Or 
no,  wait  a  minute  !  " 

The  deputy  marshal  had  led  the  horse 
off  the  roadway  toward  the  sprawling  re- 
mains of  a  rail  fence  at  the  side.  He 
paused    now,    communed    with    himself   for 


The  Deputy  Marshal.  %*] 

an  instant,  then  brought  the  horse  and 
cutter  back  again,  and  tossed  the  blanket 
he  had  taken  out"  upon  the  seat  once 
more. 

"No,"  he  said  briefly  to  Moak,  "you 
jump  in  and  drive  to  Juno  Mills  as  fast 
as  you  can,  and  git  two  pairs  of  snow- 
shoes  somewhere,  —  you're  bound  to  find 
plenty  of  'em ;  the  hotel-keeper'll  know 
who's  got  'em,  —  and  race  back  here  again. 
Don't  whisper  a  word  to  anybody  —  and 
we'll  have  him  out  in  no  time." 

So  it  happened  that  as  the  cutter  with 
its  jingling  bells  receded  from  vision  and 
hearing  down  the  road.  Job  Parshall  found 
himself  marching  back  in  embarrassed 
state  toward  the  front  door  of  the  Whip- 
ple house,  with  the  firm  tread  of  the  dep- 
uty marshal  crunching  on  the  snow  close 
at  his  heels. 

He  could  catch  the  sinister  rattle  of 
those  handcuffs  in  Hazzard's  pocket  at 
every  stride  the  man  took.  He  tried  not 
to  dwell    upon   it    in    his    mind,  but  it  was 


88  The  Deserter. 

a  fact  that  Norm  Hazzard  had  killed  two 
men,  one  of  them  a  member  of  a  famous 
local  gang  of  horse-thieves,  whom  he  had 
shot  where  he  was  ambushed  behind  the 
grain  bags  in  his  barn,  the  other  a  wife- 
murderer,  who  had  escaped  from  jail  to 
the  woods. 

How  was  it,  Job  wondered,  that  he  had 
missed  all  ten  of  his  shots  at  Mose  ?  Per- 
haps they  were  not  all  misses.  Men  did 
run  sometimes,  it  was  said,  after  they  had 
been  struck  by  a  bullet.  What  if  Mose, 
after  all,  was  lying  there,  somewhere  in 
the  woods,  wounded  and  helpless  in  the 
bitter  cold ! 

The  manacles  behind  him  ground  to- 
gether with  a  cruel,  rasping  noise  as  this 
picture  rose  in  his  brain. 

He  pushed  the  door  wide  open  and 
went  in,  closely  followed  by  the  other. 

Old  Asa  sat  where  he  had  left  him,  his 
tall  frame  settled  down  supinely  in  the 
armchair,  his  head  bent  on  his  breast,  mo- 
tionless and  apparently  asleep. 


The  Deputy  Marshal.  89 

"  Here's  somebody  to  see  you,  Asa," 
Job  said,  as  he  heard  the  door  close  be- 
hind him ;   but  the  old  man  did  not  stir. 

The  deputy  marshal  walked  forward, 
brusquely  pushing  the  lad  aside,  and  laid 
a  heavy  hand  on  Asa  Whipple's  shoulder. 
He  paused  then,  as  if  puzzled  by  what  his 
grasp  felt.  Then  he  put  his  other  hand, 
not  so  ungently,  into  the  old  man's  beard 
and  lifted  his  head  up. 

"  Say !  I  wasn't  figurin'  on  this  ! "  was 
his  bewildered  exclamation.  "  Here,  quick, 
you  !  run  and  bring  some  water.  Maybe  it's 
only  a  faint." 

This  indeed  it  turned  out  to  be  —  a  deep 
swoon,  the  result  of  long  privation  and 
weakness,  accented  by  the  sudden  relief 
and  the  subsequent  strain  of  excitement. 

Hazzard  could  not  rouse  the  old  man 
from  his  comatose  lethargy,  with  all  his 
rubbing  and  slapping  of  hands,  and  liberal 
use  of  snow  upon  the  temple  and  lips.  But 
he  did  satisfy  himself  that  there  was  no 
imminent  danger,  and  he  went  to  work  to 


90  The  Deserter. 

spread  out  the  bed  again  behind  the  stove, 
loosen  old  Asa's  clothes,  and  stretch  him 
out  to  sleep  at  his  ease,  comfortably  tucked 
in  with  Hazzard's  own  overcoat,  which  the 
marshal  had  stripped  off  for  the  purpose, 
quite  as  if  his  mission  in  life  had  been  to 
nurse  rather  than  arrest  people. 

He  had  taken  out  of  the  overcoat  pocket, 
before  spreading  it  across  the  bed,  a  big 
navy  revolver,  a  parcel  or  two,  presumably 
of  ammunition,  and  a  couple  of  curious  steel 
wristlets,  linked  together  with  a  chain ;  Job 
looked  at  these  latter,  as  they  lay  on  the 
table,  with  profound  interest. 

Job  had  never  seen  handcuffs  so  near, 
and  he  longed  to  ask  the  great  man  to  show 
him  how  they  worked.  Finally,  after  he 
had  obeyed  his  curt  instruction  to  put  more 
wood  on  the  fire,  and  the  deputy  marshal 
had  seated  himself  by  the  stove  with  his 
feet  balanced  on  a  stick  just  inside  the  oven 
door,  and  a  pipe  in  his  mouth.  Job  ventured 
to  lift  the  manacles  from  the  table  and 
.    inspect  them. 


The  Deputy  Marshal.  91 

As  this  passed  without  protest  he  went  to 
the  length  of  opening  one  of  the  bands  on 
its. hinge,  and  then  shutting  it  about  his 
wrist.  The  two  parts  went  together  with  a 
choking  snap,  and  the  boy,  after  a  few  fruit- 
less efforts  to  open  them  or  to  slip  his  hand 
through,  began  to  guess  that  he  would  have 
to  ask  the  help  of  the  deputy  marshal  to 
release  him. 

He  would  not  humble  himself  thus,  how- 
ever, before  it  was  a  matter  of  sheer  neces- 
sity; and  he  tugged  away  at  the  lock  in 
dogged  silence,  until  his  wrist  was  red  and 
sore.  The  consciousness  that  the  official 
was  grinning  at  him  only  made  the  thing 
worse. 

"  If  I'd  had  the  sense  to  do  that  myself," 
remarked  Hazzard  after  a  time,  "when  I 
first  laid  eyes  on  you  this  morning,  and  then 
nailed  the  chain  up  to  the  barn  door-post, 
I'd  have  saved  myself  a  heap  of  trouble. 
Leave  it  alone,  or  you'll  swell  your  wrist 
out  o'  shape.  I'll  unlock  it  bimeby  — 
maybe." 


92  The  Deserter. 

He  smoked  silently  for  a  minute,  dividing 
his  ruminative  gaze  between  the  steaming 
leather  in  the  oven,  and  the  rueful  counte- 
nance of  the  boy  in  the  handcuffs. 

"  You're  Hank  Parshall's  boy,  ain't  you  ?  " 
he  asked  at  last. 

Job  nodded  and  held  his  imprisoned  hand 
forth  to  hint,  without  saying,  that  he  had 
had  enough  of  the  handcuff. 

The  other  paid  no  heed  to  the  gesture. 
"What's  the  matter  with  the  old  man,  here.''" 
he  inquired  with  a  downward  nod. 

"  He  ain't  had  enough  to  eat,"  said  Job, 
bluntly.  "  That's  what's  the  matter  with 
him.  He  told  me  himself  he  laid  down 
there  last  night  to  starve  to  death." 

Mr.  Hazzard  pointed  a  thumb  to  the 
greasy  frying-pan,  and  the  remains  of  the 
chicken  on  the  table  beside  Job. 

"  People  don't  go  to  work  that  way  to 
starve,"  he  commented  dryly. 

"  Mose  brought  him  that  —  I  guess  I 
know  pretty  well  where  he  got  it,  too.  The 
old  man  allowed  that  that  was  what  saved 


The  Deputy  Marshal.  '  93 

his  life.  They  hadn't  been  a  soul  near  him 
before  since  the  snowfall  —  and  he  laid  up. 
Oh,  that  reminds  me  !  "  Job  finished  by  tak- 
ing the  two  slices  of  bread  from  his  pocket, 
and  putting  them  on  the  table. 

"  Bring  that  for  the  old  man } "  queried 
the   deputy   marshal. 

Job  shook  his  head. 

"  No,  it's  my  own  breakfast.  I  was  goin' 
to  give  it  to  Mose,"  he  replied  stoutly. 
"  Say,  take  this  thing  off,  won't  you } " 

Norm  Hazzard  laughed  outright.  "  No !  " 
he  said.  "  Guess  after  that  I'll  have  to  put 
the  other  one  onto  you,  too."  His  tone 
lapsed  to  seriousness  as  he  went  on :  "  May- 
be you  know  somethin'  about  it  —  didn't 
I  hear  that  this  Mose  Whipple  went  to 
the  war  as  substitute  for  your  man  — Teach- 
out.?" 

"  Yes,  sir,  he  did  —  and  Teachout  didn't 
give  him  not  a  dollar,  but  jest  let  it  go  on 
to  the  mortgage,  and  he  promised  to  look 
out  for  old  Asa  here,  and  he  didn't  —  and  he'd 
begrudge  him  this  bread  here,  if  he  knew  it." 


94  The  Deserter. 

The  deputy  marshal  nodded  comprehend- 
ingly,  and  blew  the  smoke  through  his  pipe. 

"  Charged  me  and  Moak  thirty-five  cents 
apiece  for  our  breakfasts  this  mornin',  and 
twenty  cents  for  the  horse,"  he  said,  in  a 
musing  tone.  "  Reckon  he's  about  the 
tightest  old  skinflint  on  the  whole  turn- 
pike—  and  that's  sayin'  a  good  deal.  So 
he  got  drafted,  did  he  ?  Should  'a'  thought 
he  was  too  old." 

"He  ain't  as  old  as  he  looks,"  explained 
Job.  "  He's  a  good  deal  meaner,  though. 
I'm  glad  o'  one  thing,  anyway.  I  ain't  goin' 
back  there  any  more,  except  to  git  my 
clothes  and  my  money.  I'm  goin'  to  hive 
in  here  with  the  old  man,  and  kind  o'  look 
after  him.     I  promised  —  " 

"  Promised  Mose,  eh }  "  broke  in  the  dep- 
uty marshal. 

"Yes  —  if  you  want  to  know — I  did 
promise  Mose !  You  can't  touch  me  for 
that ! " 

"Why,  that's  skinnin'  alive,  that  is  —  jest 
for  that  alone,"  said  Hazzard,  with  porten- 


The  Deputy  Marshal.  95 

tous  gravity,  "to  say  nothin'  of  scootin'  over 
here  to  give  warnin',  and  bringin'  that  bread 
there  in  your  pocket,  and  so  on.  Why,  it'll 
puzzle  a  Philadelphy  lawyer  to  find  punish- 
ments bad  enough  for  you." 

Job  looked  him  searchingly  in  the  eye  for 
a  full  minute,  then  held  up  the  fettered  hand 
again. 

"  Say,  unlock  this,  will  you  ? "  he  said, 
unabashed.  "  I  knew  you  was  foolin'  all  the 
time,"  he  added,  as  the  other  produced  the 
key  from  his  pocket  and  turned  the  lock. 
"  I  could  tell  it  right  from  the  start." 

"  Me }  me  foolin' t "  asked  Hazzard,  with 
simulated  surprise.  "  Why,  you're  crazy, 
boy!" 

"No,  I  spotted  it  right  off,"  Job  replied, 
eager  to  put  into  words  the  idea  that  had 
suddenly  come  to  him.  "  Why,  anybody 
could  tell  that.  A  sure-enough  dead  shot 
like  you  wouldn't  fire  ten  shots  at  a  man 
and  not  hit  him  once,  if  he  wasn't  foolin'. 
It  was  as  plain  as  the  nose  on  your  face  — 
you  didn't  really  want  to  catch  poor  Mose. 


96  The  Deserter. 

That's  what  made  me  take  a  shine  to  you, 
right  off." 

Norman  Hazzard  blew  more  smoke 
through  his  pipe,  and  grinned  to  himself, 
and  even  gave  an  abrupt  little  laugh  aloud, 
shifting  on  the  instant  to  an  air  of  grave 
imperturbability. 

"  You  mustn't  talk  like  that  —  that  is,  out- 
side," he  said.  "It  might  give  folks  wrong 
notions.  Besides,  I  tell  you  you're  mistaken. 
I  never  fired  more  to  kill  in  all  my  life.  But 
of  course  —  the  old  man  here  —  p'r'aps  that 
does  make  it  a  little  different." 

He  looked  down  as  he  spoke  to  where  old 
Asa  lay,  under  the  overcoat,  and  Job  felt 
sure  that  there  was  a  change  on  his  face  — 
a  change  toward  kindliness. 

"Well,  anyway,"  the  boy  persisted,  "you 
wouldn't  fire  to  kill  now,  if  you  was  to  catch 
up  to  Mose,  and  what's  more,  I  don't  believe 
you're  goin'  to  try  to  catch  up  to  him, 
neither." 

"  I  ain't,  eh } "  broke  in  the  deputy  mar- 
shal.    "  You  wait  till  Moak  gets  back  with 


The  Deputy  Marshal.  97 

the  snow-shoes.  We'll  run  him  down  in  no 
time.  He  ain't  got  no  more  chance  than  a 
lame  mud-turtle." 

The  words  sounded  savage  enough,  and 
Job,  scanning  the  lean,  tanned  face  of  the 
speaker,  found  his  mind  conjuring  up  again 
visions  of  those  two  other  wrong-doers 
whom  this  hunter  of  men  had  shot  down. 

And  yet,  somehow,  there  seemed  to  be  a 
sort  of  relenting  twinkle  in  those  sharp, 
cold,  gray  eyes  of  his. 


CHAPTER   VI. 

A    HOME    IN    THE    WOODS. 

nPHE  pursuit  of  Mose  Whipple  had  to 
be  postponed,  as  it  turned  out,  whether 
the  deputy  marshal  relented  or  not. 

It  was  late,  for  one  thing,  before  Moak 
returned  from  his  quest  after  snow-shoes, 
and  what  was  worse,  he  came  back  empty- 
handed.  He  had  driven  about,  over  and 
through  the  drifted  roads,  for  miles,  directed 
by  local  rumors  and  surmise,  to  one  after 
another  of  the  isolated  farm-houses  scat- 
tered over  the  district,  but  had  found  no 
snow-shoes. 

He  was  too  cold  and  stiff,  and  too  much 
annoyed  with  the  day's  experiences,  to  lis- 
ten to  any  further  delay,  but  sat  doggedly 
in  the  sleigh,  out  on  the  road  in  front  of 
the  Whipple  house,  until  the  deputy  mar- 
shal, followed  by  Job,  came  out  to  him. 


A  Home  in  the   Woods.  99 

"  No,  I  ain't  goin'  to  get  out  again, 
Norm,"  he  said  querulously.  "  I've  had 
enough  of  this  fool's  errand.  I'm  froze 
solid  now  in  one  position,  and  I'm  gittin' 
used  to  it.  I  don't  want  to  climb  out  and 
limber  up,  and  then  have  to  freeze  stiff  all 
over  again  in  some  new  shape.  Just  you 
give  it  up  for  a  bad  job,  and  come  along. 
We  can  get  to  Octavius  by  supper-time  if 
we  look  sharp." 

"  I  never  got  beat  like  this  before ! " 
growled  Norman  Hazzard,  kicking  into 
the  crust.  "  I  hate  to  give  up  a  thing 
this  way.  But,"  he  added  after  a  pause, 
"  I  s'pose  you're  right.  It  is  a  fool's 
errand,  and  I  guess  we're  the  fools,  sure 
enough." 

With  a  reluctant  sigh  he  knocked  the 
snow  off  his  boots  against  the  runner,  as 
he  was  about  to  step  into  the  sleigh.  He 
seated  himself  beside  Moak,  and  drew  the 
buffalo-robe  up  over  his  breast,  and  said, 
"  All  right,  go  ahead  !  " 

Moak  grinned,  in  spite  of  his  ill-temper. 


loo  The  Deserter. 

"  I  didn't  think  it'd  be  as  bad  as  that, 
Norm,"  he  chuckled,  "drivin'  you  clean  out 
of  your  senses.  Why,  man,  you're  goin' 
away  without  your  overcoat !  " 

"  No.  You  mind  your  own  business, 
Moak ! "  rejoined  the  deputy  marshal,  get- 
ting one  of   his  shoulders   under   the    robe. 

"  Shall  I  run  in  and  get  it  for  you  ? " 
suggested  Job,  half-turning  to  hasten  on 
the  errand. 

"  You  mind  your  business,  too ! "  said 
Hazzard,  with  affected  roughness,  but  with 
an  undertone  of  humane  meaning  which 
both  his  hearers  caught  and  comprehended. 
"And  look  here,  boy,  if  you  and  the  old 
man  find  yourselves  in  need  of  help,  why, 
you  know  where  I'm  to  be  found.  Mean- 
while you'd  better  take  this."  He  handed 
something  to  Job. 

Mr.  Moak  cast  a  look  of  hostile  sus- 
picion at  the  urchin  by  the  roadside. 

"  Guess  he's  more  likely  to  know  where 
Mose  Whipple's  to  be  found ! "  Moak  said. 
Then  he  drew  the  reins  tight  with  a  jerk. 


A  Home  in  the  Woods.  loi 

gave  a  loud,  emphatic  cluck  to  the  horse, 
and  the  sleigh  went  dashing  southward 
amid  a  defiant  jingling  of  bells. 

The  boy  stood  watching  till  the  vehicle 
had  become  a  mere  dwindling  point  of 
blackness  on  the  sunlit  waste  of  snow. 

Then  he  turned  his  attention  to  the 
greenback  which  the  deputy  marshal  had 
given  him,  and  looked  meditatively  at  the 
big  and  significant  "  5  "  on  its  right-hand 
corner. 

When  he  lifted  his  eyes  again  the  sleigh 
had  disappeared.  The  pursuit  of  poor  Mose 
was  at  an  end. 

When  the  spring  of  1864  came  slowly 
up  on  the  bleak  tablelands  skirting  the 
Adirondacks,  it  found  the  Whipple  home- 
stead undoubtedly  better  off  than  it  had 
been  a  year  before.  Neighbors  from  Juno 
Mills  who  drove  by,  after  the  road  had 
settled  into  usable  condition,  noticed  that 
the  place  had  been  "  spruced  up,"  and 
looked  considerably  more  shipshape  than 
it  had   ever   done   in   Mose's   time.     There 


I02  The  Deserter. 

was  even  a  report  down  at  the  Corners  that 
old  Asa  was  going  to  borrow  Taft's  two- 
horse  cultivator  and  put  in  some  crops ! 

People  said  "  old  Asa,"  but  every  one 
knew  that  this  rumor,  and  all  other  com- 
ments upon  the  improved  appearance  and 
prospects  of  the  Whipple  place,  really  re- 
ferred to  young  Job.  Even  in  this  hard- 
working and  tireless  region,  accustomed  as 
it  has  always  been  to  energetic  and  capable 
boys,  men  talked  this  spring  approvingly  of 
what  the  "  Parshall  youngster "  had  done, 
and  bragged  about  having  predicted  from 
the  start  that  he  had  the  right  stuff  in 
him. 

When  one  comes  to  set  down  in  words 
what  it  was  that  Job  had  done,  it  does  not 
sound  very  great.  He  had  worked  three 
days  a  week  at  the  cheese  factory,  and  gone 
to  school  the  other  three  days  —  that  is  all. 
But  the  outcome  of  this  was  that  April 
found  old  Asa  Whipple  once  more,  to  all 
outward  appearances,  a  hale  and  strong 
man  for  his  years,  and  revealed  the  young 


A  Home  in  the   Woods.  103 

lad  who  had  adopted  him,  so  to  speak,  as 
an  enterprising  and  efficient  member  of 
the  sparsely  settled  community,  who  had 
plans  for  doing  things,  and  worked  like  a 
beaver,  and  paid  ready  money  at  the  Corner 
grocery  store. 

When  the  talk  of  the  neighborhood 
drifted  to  the  subject  of  Mose  Whipple's 
desertion  and  his  supposed  flight  to  Canada, 
it  ended  usually  in  the  conclusion  that  old 
Asa  had  made  a  good  exchange  in  getting 
such  an  industrious  and  go-ahead  chap  as 
Job  Parshall  in  Mose's  place. 

Asa  Whipple  and  Job  were  at  work  in 
the  field  across  the  road  from  the  Whipple 
house  one  afternoon  in  mid-May.  Job  had 
come  back  early  from  the  factory  to  finish 
a  job  upon  which  he  had  expended  all  the 
spare  labor  of  a  week.  There  was  a  patch 
of  land,  some  rods  square,  from  which  he 
had  uprooted  the  black  moss.  He  had 
ploughed  and  fertilized  it,  and  sown  it  with 
oats. 

He  had  resolved    to   put    this    reclaimed 


I04  The  Deserter. 

land  to  grass  later  on,  and  to  this  end  was 
now  dragging  across  it  a  heavy  tree  bough, 
old  Asa  following  behind  him  with  a  bag 
of  grass  seed,  which  he  scattered  over  the 
loosened  earth  as  he  walked. 

Job  glanced  over  his  shoulder  from 
time  to  time  to  note  the  uneven  way  in 
which  the  old  man  cast  the  flying  hand- 
fuls  to  one  side. 

"  Seems  to  me  I  ain't  ever  goin'  to  make 
a  good  farmer  of  you,"  he  said  at  last,  good- 
naturedly  enough,  but  still  with  a  sugges- 
tion of  impatience  in  his  tone.  "  You'll  see 
that  grass  come  up  all  in  wads  and  patches. 
Open  your  hand  more,  and  try  and  scatter 
it  regular  like.     Let  me  show  you  again." 

The  old  man  stopped,  and  submissively 
lent  himself  afresh  to  the  lesson  which 
Job  sought  to  teach;  but  at  the  end  he 
sighed  and  shook  his  white  head. 

"  No,  I'm  too  old  to  learn.  Job,"  he  said. 
"  I  never  was  cut  out  for  a  farmer,  anyway. 
Besides,  what's  the  use  ?  The  black  moss'll 
be  all  back  agin  by  next  spring." 


A  Home  m  the   Woods.  105 

"  By  that  time,  if  we  had  good  luck  with 
this,  we  could  be  keepin'  a  cow,  and  p'r'aps 
a  horse  to  do  the  work,"  remonstrated  the 
boy.  "  If  I  had  a  horse,  I'd  knock  that 
moss  endwise,  or  know  the  reason  why." 

A  noise  from  the  road  close  behind 
them  attracted  their  attention.  They 
turned,  screening  their  eyes  against  the 
declining  sun  to  see  who  was  seated  in 
the  buggy  which  had  halted  there  across 
the  tumble-down  rail  fence.  Then  old  Asa 
pointed  a  lean  forefinger  toward  the  new- 
comer. 

"  That's  the  reason  why ! "  he  said, 
bitterly. 

Job  could  make  out  now  that  it  was 
Elisha  Teachout  who  sat  in  the  buggy. 
The  boy  had  not  seen  him  since  the  event- 
ful day  of  Mose's  return  and  escape,  when 
he  had  gone  over  to  the  big  farm-house 
toward  dusk  and  got  his  clothes  and  the 
money  due  him.  This  had  not  been  so 
easy  or  pleasant  a  task  that  he  was  re- 
joiced now  to  see  Mr.  Teachout  again. 


io6  The  Deserter.  ^ 

The  rich  farmer,  thinner  and  yellower 
and  more  like  a  bird  of  prey  than  ever 
against  the  reddening  flare  of  sunlight, 
looked  over  at  the  pair  with  an  ugly  cari- 
cature of  a  smile  on  his  hard,  hairless  face. 

"  I  happened  to  be  drivin'  past,"  he 
called  out  at  last,  snapping  the  shrill 
words  forth  with  a  kind  of  malevolent  en- 
joyment, "  and  I  jest  thought  I'd  stop  and 
mention  that  I'm  going  to  foreclose  on 
this  place  in  four  days'  time.  I've  entered 
judgment  for  one  hundred  and  six  dollars 
and  seventy-three  cents,  countin'  interest 
and  all.  I  jest  thought  that  mebbe  you'd 
like  to  know.  The  sheriff'll  be  on  hand 
here  bright  and  early  Monday  mornin'.  It 
jest  occurred  to  me  to  speak  of  it  as  I  was 
passin'." 

With  these  mocking  words  still  on  the 
air,  Mr.  Teachout  turned  and  drove  down 
the  road  a  few  yards.  A  thought  occurred 
to  him,  and  he  halted  long  enough  to  call 
out,  more  shrilly  than  before :  — 

"  That   Parshall    boy  needn't   come   back 


*         A  Home  in  the   Woods.  107 

and  whine  around  my  place  to  be  taken 
back!  I  won't  hev  him!"  Then  he  put 
whip  to  his  horse  and  was  off. 

The  two  workers  in  the  field  looked  each 
other  in  the  face  for  one  dumb  moment  of 
bewilderment.  Then  old  Asa  took  the 
seed-bag  off  his  arm  and  deliberately  held 
it  upside  down,  till  the  last  grain  had  sifted 
out  to  the  little  pile  at  his  feet. 

"  I  don't  sow  for  Elisha  Teachout  to  reap 
—  not  if  I  know  myself!"  he  remarked, 
grimly. 

"  Can  he  do  it }  Is  it  as  bad  as  all 
that?"  demanded  Job. 

Asa  nodded  his  head. 

"  I  s'pose  it  is,"  he  said.  "  They  ain't  no 
use  tryin'  to  buck  against  a  man  like  him. 
He's  got  the  money,  and  that  means  he's 
got  the  law  and  the  sheriff  on  his  side. 
No,  the  jig's  up.  They  ain't  nothin'  for 
it  but  for  us  to  git  out   Monday." 

Job  had  tossed  the  heavy  bough  to  one 
side,  and  walked  to  the  fence,  where  he 
was  putting  on  his  coat. 


io8  The  Deserter. 

"  Oh,  yes,  there  is,"  said  he. 

"  What  do  you  mean.  Job  ? "  queried  the 
old  man,  advancing  toward  him,  "  what  else 
kin  we  do  ?  " 

"  Git  out  before  Monday,"  answered  the 
boy,  laconically. 

They  walked  in  silence  across  the  road, 
and  through  the  front  yard  to  the  house, 
without    exchanffingr  further  words.      Once 

o      o 

indoors,  they  began  to  empty  drawers,  clear 
cupboards  and  shelves,  and  gather  the  port- 
able belongings  of  the  household  into  a 
heap  on  the  table  in  the  living-room.  It 
was  not  a  long  task,  and  they  performed  it 
in  silence.  It  was  only  when  they  rested 
upon  its  completion  that  the  old  man  said, 
with  a  little  quaver  in  his  voice :  — 

"Almost  the  last  words  he  spoke  before 
he  went  was,  '  And  in  the  spring  you  must 
come  and  be  with  me  in  the  woods.'  Them 
was  his  identical  words.  You  remember 
'em,  don't  you.  Job .? " 

The  boy  nodded  assent. 

"  We'll  kill  the  chickens  —  all  five  of  'em, 


A  Home  in  the  Woods.  109 

and  roast  'em  to-night.  They'll  keep  that 
way,  and  they'll  see  us  through  the  whole 
tramp.  If  you'll  see  to  that,  I'll  sort  this 
stuff  over,  and  see  how  much  of  it  we 
really  need.     We  can  burn  the  rest. 

"  His  grandfather  and  my  father,"  the 
old  man  went  on,  "  started  here  together, 
both  poor  men.  He's  managed  it  so  that 
he's  got  everything  and  I've  got  nothing. 
But  he  can't  prevent  my  bein'  an  honest 
man,  and  I'll  go  away  not  beholden  to 
him  for  a  cent.  That  was  one  of  his 
chickens  that  my  boy  brought  me  here, 
when  I  was  sick  and  pretty  nigh  starved 
to  death.  Very  well,  I'll  leave  one  chicken 
in  the  coop  when  we  go.  It  sha'n't  be  on 
my  mind  that  I  owe  Elisha  Teachout  so 
much  as  a  pinfeather." 

Almost  nothing  was  said  between  them, 
either  then  or  during  the  evening,  about 
Mose.  Though  they  were  starting  to  join 
him  in  the  morning,  —  turning  their  backs 
upon  civilization  and  the  haunts  of  men, — 
the  reserve  which  through  all  these  months 


no  The  Deserter. 

since  his  disappearance  they  had  observed 
about  him  and  his  offence  still  weighed 
upon  their  tongues. 

But  in  the  dead  watches  of  the  night 
—  this  last  night  to  be  spent  under  the 
Whipple  roof  —  Job  woke  up,  where  he 
lay  wrapped  in  his  blanket,  and  heard  old 
Asa's  voice  softly  murmuring,  whether  in 
his  sleep  or  not  the  boy  never  knew:  "In 
the  spring  you  must  come  and  be  with  me 
in  the  woods  !  " 

Away  in  the  recesses  of  the  forest  prime- 
eval,  in  a  mountain  nook  linked  by  a  spark- 
ling band  of  spring-fed  streams  and  a  chain 
of  cascades  to  the  silent  thoroughfare  of 
the  Raquette  water,  Mose  Whipple  had 
chosen  his  hiding-place,  and  built  for  him- 
self a  log  hut.  Thither  came  to  him  now, 
after  a  toilsome  three  days'  journey,  —  by 
creek-bed  and  steep,  boulder-strewn  ravine, 
by  lonely,  placid,  still  water,  and  broad, 
reed-grown  beaver-meadow,  where  the  deer 
fed  unalarmed  on  the  lily  pads,  and  the 
great  tracks  of  the  moose  lay  on  the  black 
mud,  —  old  Asa  and  Job. 


A  Home  in  the   Woods.  1 1 1 

There  was  an  idyllic  charm  in  the  first 
few  weeks  of  this  reunited  life  to  both 
father  and  son.  Mose  took  an  excited  de- 
light, after  months  of  solitude,  in  this  new 
companionship,  and  in  the  splendid  renewal 
of  youth  and  high  spirits  which  the  free 
life  and  air  of  the  wilderness  brought  to 
his  father. 

Job  showed  his  practical  character  in  fix- 
ing up  a  well-built  lean-to  at  the  side  of 
the  shanty,  putting  a  new  roof  of  spruce 
bark  on  the  whole  structure,  and  construct- 
ing a  fishing  raft  to  float  on  the  still  water 
up  the  outlet. 

One  day  in  early  July,  a  chance  wan- 
derer in  the  forest  —  a  Canadian  who  was 
looking  about  with  a  divining  rod  for  min- 
erals on  the  mountain  range,  and  who 
stopped  at  the  shanty  overnight  —  left  be- 
hind him  a  month-old  copy  of  a  New  York 
weekly  newspaper.  In  this  paper,  after 
breakfast,  old  Asa,  sitting  out  on  a  log  in 
the  sunlight  with  his  pipe,  read  the  horri- 
ble story  of  the  three  days'  fighting — one 
might  say  butchery  —  at   Cold    Harbor. 


112  The  Deserter. 

Mose  and  Job  had  already  started  out 
on  a  fishing  excursion  to  new  waters  across 
the  divide.  When  they  returned,  along 
toward  four  o'clock,  they  found  awaiting 
them  one  who  seemed  scarcely  recogniza- 
ble for  Asa,  so  old  and  bowed  had  he 
once  more  become. 

The  change  was  apparent  as  they  entered 
the  clearing,  and  beheld  him  seated  by  the 
doorway  a  full  hundred  yards  away. 

"  He's  had  a  stroke  or  something !  "  Mose 
exclaimed,  and  they  both  started  on  a  run 
toward  him. 

As  they  came  up,  the  old  man  lifted  his 
head  and  looked  his  son  in  the  face,  with 
a  glance  which  the  other  dimly  recalled  as 
belonging  to  that  bitter  December  day 
when  he  had  first  come  home. 

"  Mose,"  cried  Asa,  holding  the  paper 
out  as  he  spoke,  "  it's  all  wrong !  There's 
no  pretendin'  it  ain't !  We've  been  en- 
joyin'  ourselves  here,  foolin'  ourselves  into 
forgettin',  but  it's  all  wrong !  There  ain't 
been  so  much  as  a  word  dropped  sence  the 


A  Home  in  the   Woods.  1 1 3 

boy  and  me  come  here,  about  this  thing, 
and  it  seemed  as  if  the  whole  affair  had 
just  shpped  our  mem'ries  —  but  it  won't 
do.  I've  been  sittin'  here  ever  sence  you 
went  away,  thinkin'  it  over  —  thinkin'  hard 
enough  every  minute  for  the  whole  five 
months  —  and  it's  all  wrong.  Here,  you 
read  this  for  yourself." 

Mose  took  the  paper,  and  spelt  his  way 
through  the  long,  blood-drenched  narrative, 
without  a  word.  When  he  had  finished 
he  returned  his  father's  glance,  with  a  look 
of  mingled  comprehension  and  assent  in 
his  eyes.  . 

"  All  right,"  he  said  simply.  "  I  feel  the 
same  as  you  do  about  it.     I'll  go!" 

Both  seemed  to  feel  intuitively  that  this 
great  resolve,  thus  formed,  could  not  wait 
an  instant  for  fulfilment.  Hardly  another 
word  was  spoken  until  Mose,  his  pockets 
filled  for  the  journey  and  his  blanket 
strapped,  stood  ready  in  front  of  the  cabin, 
to  say  good-by. 

*'  It's  no  good  waiting  till  to-morrow," 
I 


1 1 4  The  Deserter. 

he  said  then.  "  The  sooner  it's  over  the 
better.  You  can  get  along  first-rate  here 
by  yourselves.  Job  can  take  in  skins  and 
so  on,  and  a  mess  of  trout  now  and  then, 
—  he  knows  the  way,  —  and  bring  back 
ammunition  and  your  tobacco  and  so  on. 
You'll  be  all  right." 

He  paused  a  moment,  and  then  took 
from  his  finger  the  little  rubber  ring  which 
Job  had  restored  to  him  in  Teachout's  cow- 
barn  months  before,  and  handed  it  to  Asa. 

"  Here,"  he  said,  "  that's  a  kind  of  keep- 
sake.    Good-by,  dad.     Good-by,  Job." 

Half  an  hour  or  more  had  elapsed,  and 
Asa  still  sat  on  the  log  by  the  doorway, 
his  head  buried  in  thought.  He  could 
hear  the  strokes  of  Job's  axe,  from  where 
the  boy  was  cutting  firewood  for  the  even- 
ing on  the  edge  of  the  clearing.  As  they 
fell  on  the  air  with  their  sharp,  metallic 
ring,  one  after  another,  the  old  man's 
fancy  likened  them  to  the  deadly  noises 
of  the  battle-field,  whither  his  boy  was  mak- 
ing his  way. 


A  Home  in  the   Woods.  115 

But  he  regretted  nothing — no,  noth- 
ing, save  that  the  act  of  reparation,  of 
atonement,  had  not  been  made  long 
before. 

There  came  with  abrupt  suddenness 
another  sound  —  the  unfamihar  sound  of 
a  stranger's  voice  addressing  him.  Asa 
looked  up,  rousing  himself  from  his  reverie 
with  difficulty.  He  saw  that  two  men 
with  rods,  and  fishing  baskets,  and  camp- 
ing packs  on  their  backs,  were  standing  in 
front  of  him.  Their  faces  were  in  the 
shadow,  but  he  slowly  made  out  the  fore- 
most one  to  be  the  deputy  marshal,  Nor- 
man Hazzard. 

"So  here's  where  you  moved  to,  eh } " 
the  deputy  marshal  was  asking,  by  way  of 
not  unfriendly  salutation. 

Asa  stared  hard  for  a  minute  at  this 
astonishing  apparition.  Then  his  bewil- 
dered  tongue   found   words. 

"  If  you're  lookin'  for  my  son,"  he  said 
proudly,  "  he's  gone  back  to  jine  his  regi- 
ment—  to  do  his  duty!" 


ii6  The  Deserter. 

Hazzard  stared  in  turn.  "  Gone !  "  he 
exclaimed,  "  when  ?  " 

"  This  very  day,"  rejoined  Asa,  "  not  an 
hour  ago.  He  saw  it  was  right,  and  he 
went ! " 

The  deputy  marshal  threw  up  his  hands 
in  a  gesture  of  despairing  amazement. 
"  Why,  man  alive  !  "  he  cried,  "  they'll  shoot 
him  like  a  dog ! " 


CHAPTER   VII. 

ANOTHER    CHASE     AFTER     MOSE. 

A  SA  WHIPPLE  and  the  deputy  mar- 
^^  shal  gazed  in  a  dumbfounded  way  at 
each  other  through  a  cruel  minute  of  si- 
lence^ broken  only  by  the  echoing  strokes 
of  Job's  axe  out  in  the  undergrowth  be- 
yond. It  was  the  third  man  who  first 
found  his  tongue ;  and  Asa,  looking  dumbly 
at  him,  saw  that  he  was  no  other  than 
Nelse  Hornbeck. 

"  Downright  cur'ous  that  we  should  'a' 
happened  to  hit  on  you  like  this,  ain't  it  ? " 
Nelse  began.  "  If  we'd  ben  tryin'  to  find 
you,  we'd  never  'a'  done  it  in  this  born 
world !  Norm  and  me,  you  see,  we've  ben 
fishin'  up  Panther  River  three  days,  and 
then  we  followed  up  the  South  Branch 
outlet,  and  I'd  ben  figgerin'  on  makin' 
117 


1 1 8  The  Deserter. 

a  camp  by  the  lake  there,  an'  workin* 
down  the  other  branch ;  but  the  flies  were 
pretty  bad,  and  Norm  here,  he  took  a 
fancy  to  this  'ere  outlet,  and  our  oil  of  tar 
was  about  give   out,  and  so  I  —  " 

"Oh,  shut  up!"  broke  in  the  deputy 
marshal,  impatiently.  "  Look  here,  Asa 
Whipple,  is  that  straight  what  you're  tell- 
ing me  —  that  Mose  has  started  off  to  give 
himself  up  ?  "  . 

The  old  man  rose  from  the  log  and 
stood  erect.  He  had  never  seemed  so  tall 
before  in  his  life,  and  he  looked  down 
upon  the  more  lithe  and  sinewy  figure  of 
the  deputy  marshal  almost  haughtily. 

'*  No,  not  to  give  himself  up.  '  To  jine 
his  regiment,'  was  what  I  said." 

Norman  Hazzard  snorted  out  an  angry 
laugh. 

"  Were  there  ever  two  such  simpletons 
under  one  roof }  "  he  cried.  " '  Jine  his 
regiment ! '  Why,  man,  I  tell  you,  they'll 
simply  take  him  and  shoot  him !  They 
can't  do  anything  else,  even  if  they  wanted 


Another  Chase  after  Mose.  119 

to.  That's  the  regulations.  He  can't  jine 
anything,  except  what  the  newspapers  call 
the  '  silent  majority.'  Do  you  mean  to  tell 
me  —  a  man  of  your  age  — you  didn't  know 
that?'' 

"  All  I  know  is,"  said  Asa,  doggedly, 
"  that  Mose  seen  his  duty,  and  he  done  it. 
He  left  his  regiment  because  there  was 
nothin'  doin',  and  some  mean  Dutchman 
who  had  a  spite  agin  him  wouldn't  let  him 
git  a  furlough,  and  he  was  scairt  to  death 
about  me,  —  and  you  know  as  well  as  I 
do  that  if  he  hadn't  come  just  as  he  did 
I'd  been  a  gone  coon,  —  and  then  he  come 
off  up  in  here,  and  we  follered  him,  and  there 
was  so  much  to  do,  fixin'  up  this  new 
place,  that  we  hadn't  time  to  do  much 
thinkin'  about  what  was  right  and  what 
was  wrong  till  only  this  mornin'  I  hap- 
pened to  git  hold  o'  that  paper  there,  and 
it  seems  the  war's  about  ten  times  worse 
than  ever,  and  when  Mose  came  in  and  I 
showed  it  to  him,  and  he  read  it  through, 
he    jest    give    me    a    look,    and    says    he, 


I20  The  Deserter. 

'  You're  right.  I  ain't  got  no  business 
here.  I'm  off.'  And  off  he  went.  That's 
all ;    and   I'm  proud  of  him." 

The  deputy  marshal  groaned.  "  Don't 
I  tell  you  they  won't  have  him  ?  The  min- 
ute they  lay  eyes  on  him  he's  a  dead  man. 
I  don't  believe  the  President  himself  could 
save  him." 

"Why  don't  you  save  him  yourself.'*" 
put  in  a  new  voice,   abruptly. 

Mr.  Hazzard  turned  and  beheld  Job, 
who  had  come  up  with  his  axe  and  a 
huge  armful  of  wood.  He  threw,  these 
down,  brushed  his  sleeve,  and  nodded  to 
the  deputy  marshal. 

"  How'd  do.  Norm,"  he  said  now.  "  Why 
don't  you  go  and  stop  him  yourself  ?  " 

Hazzard  half-closed  one  of  his  eyes,  and 
contemplated  Job  with  a  quizzical  expres- 
sion. "  Hello,  youngster  !  "  he  remarked. 
"  You're  lookin'  after  these  loons,  heh  ? 
Well,  I  wonder  you  didn't  put  a  veto  on 
this  tomfoolery.  You're  the  only  party  in 
this  camp  that  seems  to  have  any  sense." 


Another  Chase  after  Mose.  121 

"  They  wouldn't  have  listened  to  me," 
rejoined  Job.  "  They  were  both  too  red- 
hot  about  the  thing  to  listen  to  anybody.  I 
thought  it  was  foolishness  myself,  but  they 
didn't  ask  me,  and  so  I  went  and  chopped 
wood  and  minded  my  own  business.  But 
it'd  be  different  with  you.  If  you  could 
manage  to  overtake  Mose,  he'd  listen  to 
you.     You  can  catch  him  if  you  run." 

The  deputy  marshal  on  the  instant  had 
tossed  aside  his  rod,  and  was  hurriedly 
getting  off  his  basket  and  pack. 

"  I'll  have  a  try  for  it,  anyway,"  he  said. 
"  But  it'd  be  jest  like  Mose  to  put  his 
back  up  and  refuse  to  come,  even  after 
I'd  caught  him." 

"  Tell  him  his  father  wants  him  to  come 
back,"  suggested  Job.  "  That'll  fetch  him. 
Here,  Asa,"  the  boy  continued,  "give  us 
that  ring  there.  Norm  can  take  that  and 
show  it  to  him  as  a  sign  that  you've 
changed  your  mind.  That's  the  way  they 
do  it  in  the  story-books.  That's  all  rings 
are  for,  accordin'  to  them." 


122  The  Deserter. 

"  But  I  don't  know  as  I  hev  changed 
my  mind,"  old  Asa  began  hesitatingly,  but 
with  his  fingers  on  the  ring. 

"  Well,  you'll  have  time  to  do  that  while 
Norm's  gone,"  commented  Job. 

With  grave  insistence  he  took  the  old 
rubber  ornament  from  Asa's  hand  and  gave 
it  to  Hazzard.  "  Keep  on  this  side  of  the 
outlet,"  he  added.  "  There's  a  clear  path 
most  of  the  way.  You  can  get  down  the 
big  falls  by  the  stones  if  you  go  out  close 
to  the  stream.  You'll  catch  him  easy  this 
side  of  the  Raquette." 

The  deputy  marshal  wheeled  and  started 
down  the  clearing  on  a  long-stride,  loping 
run,  like  a  greyhound.  Almost  as  they 
looked  he  was  lost  to  sight  among  the  trees 
beyond. 

It  occurred  to  Nelse  Hornbeck  now  to 
relieve  himself  of  his  pack  and  accoutre- 
ments, and  to  make  himself  otherwise  at 
home.  He  lighted  his  pipe,  and  stretched 
himself  out  comfortably  on  the  roots  of  a 
stump  by  the  doorway. 


Another  Chase  after  Mose.  123 

"  Well,"  he  remarked  after  a  little,  "  I 
alius  said  I'd  ruther  have  a  pack  of  nigger 
bloodhounds  after  me  than  Norm  Hazzard 
if  I'd  done  anything  that  I  wanted  to  git 
away  for.  But  of  course  this  is  different. 
I  don't  know  how  much  good  he'll  be 
tryin'  to  catch  a  man  that  ain't  done  any- 
thing. I  s'pose  it  would  be  different, 
wouldn't  it?  But  then  of  course  he  could 
pretend  to  himself  that  Mose  had  done 
something  —  and  for  that  matter,  all  he's 
got  to  do  is  to  play  that  Mose  is  still  a 
deserter ;  and  of  course  if  you  come  to  that, 
why,  he  is  a  deserter." 

"  He  ain't  nothing  of  the  kind !  "  roared 
old  Asa,  with  vehemence. 

"  Well,  of  course,  Asy,  if  you  say  so," 
Nelse  hastened  to  get  in,  with  a  pacific 
wave  of  his  pipe,  "  I  don't  pretend  to  be 
no  jedge  myself  in  military  affairs  ;  I  dessay 
you're  right.  Of  course  Mose  is  in  one 
place,  and  the  army's  in  another,  but  that 
don't  prove  that  it  wasn't  the  army  that 
deserted    Mose,    does    it  ?      I'm    a   man    of 


124  '^^^  Deserter. 

peace  myself,  and  I  don't  set  up  to  be  no 
authority  on  these  p'ints." 

"  Well,  then,  what  are  you  talkin'  about  ?  " 
interposed  Job,  severely.  "  Don't  you  see 
old  Asa's  upset  and  nervous  about  Mose  ? 
Tell  us  about  things  you  know  something 
about.     How's  old  Teachout }  " 

"  Well,  now,  cur'ous  enough,"  said  Nelse, 
thoughtfully,  "  that's  jest  one  of  the  things 
I  don't  know  about  at  all,  and  nobody  else 
knows,  either  —  that  is,  this  side  o'  Jordan. 
'Lishe  Teachout's  ben  dead  of  inflamma- 
tion o'  the  lungs  now  —  le's  see  —  up'ards 
of  a  month.  Why,  come  to  think  of  it, 
Asy,  why,  yes,  he  ketched  his  cold  goin' 
out  to  attend  the  sheriff's  sale  at  your  old 
place,  and  that  daughter  of  his  that  run 
away  with  the  lightnin'-rod  agent  —  you 
remember?  —  she's  come  in  for  the  hull 
property,  and  they  say  she's  goin'  to  sell 
it  and  live  down  in  New  York.  I  guess 
she'll  scatter  the  money  right  and  left.  And 
'Lishe  worked  hard  for  it,  too ! " 

Old  Asa  cast  a  ruminant  glance  over  the 


Another  Chase  after  Mose.  125 

little  shanty,  and  the  clearing  full  of  warm 
sunshine,  and  the  broad  belt  of  stately  dark 
firs  beyond  rustling  their  boughs  in  soft  har- 
mony with  the  tinkle  of  the  stream  below, 
and  swaying  their  tall  tops  gently  against 
the  light  of  bright  blue  overhead.  Then 
he  drew  a  long,  restful  breath. 

"  There's  things  a  heap  sight  better  than 
money  in  this  world,"  he  said. 

Mose  had  started  out  on  his  impulsive 
errand  buoyantly  enough.  He  made  his 
way  down  the  side  hill  to  the  outlet  with 
a  light,  swinging  step,  and  pushed  along 
on  the  descent  of  the  creek-bed,  leaping 
from  boulder  to  boulder,  and  skirting  the 
pools  with  the  agility  of  a  practised  woods- 
man, almost  as  if  his  mission  were  a  joyful 
one. 

At  the  outset,  indeed,  his  ruling  sensa- 
tion was  one  of  relief.  He  had  had  four 
months  and  more  of  solitude  here  in  the 
woods,  from  New  Year's  through  till  the 
weary  winter  broke  at  last,  in  which  to 
think  over  his  performance. 


126  The  Deserter. 

He  could  not  bring  himself  to  regret 
having  come  home ;  the  thought  that  it 
had  saved  his  father's  life  settled  that.  But 
side  by  side  with  this  conclusion  had 
grown  up  an  intense  humiliation  and  dis- 
gust for  the  necessities  which  had  forced 
upon  him  this  badge  of  "  deserter."  Granted 
that  they  were  necessities,  the  badge  was 
an  itching  and  burning  brand  none  the  less. 

The  excitement  and  change  involved  in 
the  coming  of  Asa  and  Job  had  drawn  his 
attention  away  from  this  for  a  time,  but 
the  sore  remained  unhealed.  With  the 
chance  occurrence  of  the  newspaper,  and 
the  sight  of  its  effect  upon  his  father,  the 
half -forgotten  pain  reasserted  itself  with 
such  stinging  force  that  the  one  great  end 
in  life  seemed  to  be  to  escape  from  its  in- 
tolerable burden. 

In  this  mood  of  shame  and  self-reproach, 

Mose   had    jumped   with    hot   eagerness    at 

the    notion   of   returning  to  the    ranks,  and 

.rushed    with    unthinking    haste    to    put    it 

into  effect. 


Another  Chase  after  Mose.  127 

As  the  thought  came  to  him  now  that 
perhaps  this  haste  had  also  been  unfeeHng, 
he  unconsciously  slackened  the  pace  at 
which  he  was  descending  the  ravine.  His 
father  was  once  more  in  good  health  and 
vigor,  no  doubt,  and  was  as  eager  as  he 
himself  about  having  the  odium  of  deser- 
tion washed  from  the  family  name,  if  not 
more  eager  than  he ;  but  Mose  began  to 
wish  that  they  had  talked  it  over  a  little 
more  —  that  he  had  made  his  leave-taking 
longer  and  less  abrupt. 

The  war  seemed  to  have  become  a  much 
bloodier  and  deadlier  thing  than  he  had 
known  it.  That  paper  had  spoken  of  a 
full  hundred  thousand  men  having  been 
lost  between  the  Wilderness  and  Cold  Har- 
bor. It  was  quite  likely  that  he  now,  as 
he  swung  along  down  the  waterway,  was 
going  to  his  death.  In  his  present  mood 
this  had  no  personal  terrors  for  him,  but 
it  did  cast  a  chill  shadow  over  his  thoughts 
of  his  father. 

They  two  had  chosen  their   own  life  to- 


128  The  Deserter. 

gether  —  with  all  the  views  and  aims  of 
other  men's  lives  put  quite  at  one  side. 
Their  happiness  had  not  been  in  making 
money,  in  getting  fine  clothes,  or  houses, 
or  lands,  but  just  in  being  together,  with 
the  woods  and  the  water  and  the  sky  about 
them. 

Oddly  enough,  Mose  remembered  now, 
for  the  first  time  almost  since  his  escape 
from  the  lines  at  Brandy  Station,  that  if 
it  had  not  been  for  that  wretched  Teach- 
out  mortgage,  he  need  never  have  gone  to 
the  war  at  all.  The  draft  would  have  ex- 
empted him,  as  the  only  support  of  an 
aged  father.  That  seemed  at  first  sight 
to  justify  him  in  leaving  as  he  did,  and 
he  walked  still  more  slowly  now  to  think 
this  over. 

But  no,  nothing  justified  him.  Perhaps 
his  father's  suffering  condition  excused  him 
in  some  measure  —  gave  him  the  right  to 
say  that  under  the  circumstances  he  would 
do  the  same  thing  again;  but  that  wasn't 
a  justification. 


Another  Chase  after  Mose.         129 

So  Mose  worried  his  perplexed  mind 
with  the  confusing  moral  problems  until  in 
sheer  self-defence  he  had  to  shake  them 
all  off,  root  and  branch,  and  say  to  him- 
self, "  At  any  rate  I'm  on  my  way  back ; 
I'm  started,  and  I'll  go." 

He  had  halted,  as  he  grasped  this  solu- 
tion of  the  puzzle,  to  draw  breath  and  look 
about  him.  He  stood  on  a  jutting  spur 
of  naked  granite,  overhanging  the  steep, 
shelving  hillside,  and  commanding  a  vast 
panorama  of  sloping  forest  reaches,  with 
broken  gleams  here  and  there  of  the 
Raquette  waters  way  below,  and  with  range 
upon  range  of  fir-clad  mountain  cones  ris- 
ing in  basins  beyond. 

It  dawned  upon  him,  as  his  glance  wan- 
dered over  this  stupendous  prospect,  that 
he  had  heard  at  intervals  a  curious  noise 
in  the  woods  over  at  his  left,  as  of  some 
big  body  making  its  way  through  the  under- 
brush in  haste.  If  he  had  had  a  gun  with 
him  he  reflected  now  that  he  might  have 
investigated  the  matter. 


130  The  Deserter. 

The  sounds  seemed  more  like  those 
made  by  a  bear  than  by  a  deer  —  perhaps 
more  Hke  a  moose  than  either.  Mose  had 
never  had  the  fortune  to  see  a  moose. 
It  would  be  just  his  luck,  he  thought,  with 
a  half-grin,  to  see  one  now,  when  he  had  no 
gun,  and  was  quitting  the  woods  forever. 

Hark !  there  was  the  noise  again,  below 
and  ahead  of  him  now,  but  still  to  the  left. 
He  thought  he  almost  saw  a  dark  object 
push  through  the  bushes,  hardly  a  dozen 
yards  away. 

Mose  leaped  lightly  down  upon  the  moss 
at  the  base  of  his  perch,  and  crept  cau- 
tiously along  under  the  ledge  of  rock,  the 
cover  of  which  would  protect  him  quite  to 
within  a  few  feet  of  these  bushes.  Reach- 
ing this  point,  he  lifted  his  head  to  look. 

His  astonished  gaze  rested  upon  no 
moose  or  bear,  or  other  denizen  of  the 
wild  wood,  but  took  in  at  point-blank  in- 
stead the  lean  and  leathery  countenance  of 
Deputy  Marshal  Norman  Hazzard.  It  in 
no  wise  lessened    Mose's  confusion  to  note 


Another  Chase  after  Mose.  131 

that  this  unlooked-for  countenance  wore  a 
somewhat  sardonic  grin. 

"Well,  Mose,"  Mr.  Hazzard  observed, 
"  I  learnt  last  winter  that  a  stern  chase 
was  a  long  chase,  and  I  thought  this  time 
I'd  make  a  slicker  job  of  it  by  headin' 
you  off,  and  gittin'  'round  in  front.     See } " 

"  Yes,  I  see,"  said  Mose,  mechanically ;  but 
in  truth  he  felt  himself  quite  unable  to  see  at 
all.  This  sudden  intrusion  of  the  officer  of 
the  law  between  him  and  his  patriotic  resolve, 
this  apparition  of  the  man  who  had  hunted 
him  into  the  wintry  woods  with  a  revolver, 
seemed    to  change  and  confuse  everything. 

There  rose  in  him  the  impulse  to  throw 
himself  fiercely  upon  the  deputy  marshal ; 
then,  oddly  enough,  he  was  conscious  of  a 
chuckling  sense  of  amusement  instead. 

"  Guess  I  got  the  laugh  on  you  this 
time.  Norm,"  he  said.  *'  You've  had  your 
hull  trip  for  nothin'.  I'm  on  my  way  now, 
of  my  own  motion,  to  jine  my  regiment, 
or  enlist  somewhere  else,  I  don't  care 
which." 


132  The  Deserter. 

Mr.  Hazzard  ostentatiously  drew  a  re- 
volver from  his  pocket. 

"  I  ain't  got  any  handcuffs  with  me,"  he 
remarked,  "  but  you'll  do  well  to  bear  in 
mind  that  I  ain't  at  all  shy  about  firin' 
this  here,  if  there's  any  need  for  it." 

"  But  I  tell  you  I'm  goin'  of  my  own 
accord ! "  Mose  expostulated.  "  If  you  had 
a  hull  battery  of  twelve-pounders  with  you, 
I  couldn't  do  no  more'n  that,  could  I  ? 
You  can  come  along  down  with  me  if  you 
like  —  the  hull  way  —  only  there's  no  use 
o'  your  bein'  disagreeable  and  goin'  round 
puUin'  revolvers." 

The  deputy  marshal  did  not  put  up  the 
weapon,  and  the  grin  on  his  face  grew 
deeper. 

"  Nobody,  to  look  at  you,"  said  he, 
"  would  think  you'd  give  an  officer  like  me 
more  trouble  than  any  other  man  in  the 
district.  I  had  about  the  hottest  run  on 
record  to  chase  you  safely  into  the  woods 
here.  And  now,  by  gum,  here  I've  had  to 
gallop  myself  all  out  of  breath,  barkin'  my 


Another  Chase  after  Mose.  133 

shins  and  skinnin'  my  elbows  in  a  rough- 
and-tumble  scoot  through  .the  underbrush, 
all  to  keep  you  from  makin'  a  fool  of  your- 
self agin !  It's  enough  to  make  a  man  re- 
sign office." 

Mose  stared  at  the  speaker  —  puzzled  by 
the  smile  even  more  than  by  this  unintel- 
ligible talk. 

"  See  here,"  Norman  Hazzard  went  on, 
"  I  represent  Uncle  Sam,  don't  I }  Well, 
then.  Uncle  Sam  has  to  be  pretty  rough 
on  fellows  that  shirk,  and  run  away,  and 
behave  mean  —  but  he's  got  a  heart  inside 
of  him  all  the  same.  He  knows  about 
you,  and  he  understands  that  while  you 
did  a  very  bad  thing,  you  did  it  from  first- 
rate  motives.  So  he  says  to  himself,  '  Now 
if  that  fellow  Mose  comes  around  and 
pokes  himself  right  under  my  nose,  I'll  be 
obliged  to  shoot  him  jest  for  the  effect 
upon  the  others ;  but  if  he's  only  got  sense 
enough  to  lay  low,  and  keep  on  my  blind 
side,  why,  I  won't  hurt  a  hair  of  his  head.' 
Now  do  you  secf*" 


134  T^^^  Deserter. 

"  You  mean  that  I'm  to  stay  here  ? "  asked 
Mose,  in  bewilderment. 

"  I  mean  that  you're  a  dead  man  if  you 
don't,"  replied  Hazzard.  "  Of  course  my 
business  is  to  arrest  you,  and  take  you 
back  to  be  shot.  But  I  ain't  workin'  at 
my  trade  this  week — I'm  fishin'.  And  so 
I  tell  you  to  come  back  with  me,  and 
cook  us  some  trout  for  supper  and  shut 
up,  that's  all." 

"  But  my  father,"  stammered  Mose,  "  he 
was  as  sot  on  my  goin'  back  as  I  was  — 
this  '  deserter '  business  has  been  a-stickin' 
in  his  crop  all  winter." 

"  No,  it's  all  right,"  said  Hazzard.  "  I've 
explained  it  to  him.  Here's  the  ring  you 
give  him — to  show  that  he  understands 
it.  The  fact  is,  he  and  you  ain't  got  any 
business  to  live  outside  the  woods.  You're 
both  too  green  and  too  soft  to  wrastle 
'round  down  amongst  folks.  They  cheat 
you  out  of  your  eye-teeth,  and  tromple  you 
underfoot,  and  drive  you  to  the  poorhouse 
or  the  jail.     Jest  you  and  Asa  stay  up  here 


Another  Chase  after  Mose.  135 

where  you  belong,  and  don't  you  go  down 
any  more,  foolin'  with  that  buzz-saw  that 
they  call  '  civilization,'  " 

Then  the  two  men  turned  and  began 
together  the  ascent  of  the  outlet. 

That  is  the  story.  A  good  deal  of  it  I 
heard  from  Mose  Whipple's  own  lips,  at 
different  times,  years  after  the  war,  when 
we  sat  around  the  huge  fire  in  front  of 
his  shanty  in  the  evening,  with  the  big 
stars  gleaming  overhead,  and  the  barking 
of  the  timber  wolves  coming  to  us  from 
the  distant  mountain  side,  through  the 
balmy  night  silence. 

Generally  Ex-Sheriff  Norman  Hazzard 
was  one  of  our  fishing  party,  and  he  never 
failed  to  joke  with  Mose  about  the  time 
when  he  fired  ten  shots  at  a  running  tar- 
get, and  missed  every  one. 

I  picked  up  from  their  numerous  con- 
versations too,  —  for  Mose,  like  all  the  old- 
time  Adirondack  guides,  would  rather  talk 
any  time  than  clean  fish  or  chop  fire-wood, 
—  that    Asa    lived    to    be    a   very   old    Asa 


136  The  Deserter. 

indeed,  and  that  young  Job  Parshall,  whom 
Hazzard  took  away  with  him,  saw  through 
school,  and  then  set  up  in  business,  was 
already  being  talked  of  for  supervisor  in 
his  native  town. 


A  DAY  IN  THE  WILDERNESS. 


9 


A  DAY  IN  THE  WILDERNESS. 
CHAPTER   I. 

THE    VALLEY    OF    DEATH. 

nPHE  rising  sun  lifted  its  first  curved  rim 
of  dazzling  light  above  the  dark  line 
of  distant  treetops  just  as  the  brigade  band 
began  a  new  tune  —  "The  Faded  Coat  of 
Blue."  The  musicians  themselves,  huddled 
together  under  the  shelter  of  a  mound  of 
rocks  where  the  road  descended  into  the 
ravine,  did  not  get  their  share  of  this  early 
morning  radiance,  but  remained  in  the 
shadows. 

Only  a  yard  or  two  away  from  the  out- 
ermost drummer-boy  these  shadows  ended, 
and  a  picture  began  that  was  full  of  action 
and  color,  and  flooded  with  golden  sunshine. 

The  bandsmen,  as  they  played,  observed 
139 


• 


,140  A  Day  in  the   Wilderness. 


this  picture,  and  thanked  their  stars  they 
were  no  part  of  it.  Better  a  whole  life 
spent  in  the  shade,  than  sunlight  at  such 
a  price  as  was  being  paid  for  it  out  there 
in  the  road ! 

This  road  had  never  before  been  any- 
thing but  a  narrow,  grass-grown,  out-of- 
the-way  track  for  mule-carts.  Now  it  had 
become  the  bed  of  a  broad,  endless,  moving 
human  flood — filling  it  compactly  from  side 
to  side,  with  ever  a  fresh  wave  of  blue- 
coated  men  entering  at  the  rear,  where  the 
scrub-oak  opening  began,  and  ever  a  front 
.  wave  gliding  off  downward  from  view  with 
that  sinister  slipperiness  which  arches  the 
brow  of  a  cataract. 

The  sense  of  motion  conveyed  by  these 
thousands  of  passing  men  was  at  its  per- 
fection of  rhythm  just  opposite  the  band. 
They  were  marching  in  eights,  so  close  to- 
gether that  they  trod  continually  on  any 
lagging  heel. 

The  ranks,  when  they  first  came  in 
view,  seemed  pressing  forward  without  much 


The   Valley  of  Death.  141 

order.  Then,  as  they  drew  close  to  the 
musicians,  they  fell  into  step  instinctively, 
swung  along  in  swaying  unison  for  a  few  rods, 
and  again  lapsed  into  jagged  irregularity  as 
they  swept  downward  behind  the  rock. 

It  was  indeed  only  this  shifting  section  of 
the  dozen  nearest  ranks  that  could  catch 
the  strains  of  the  band.  The  others,  whether 
in  van  or  rear,  moved  on  with  their  hearing 
numbed  by  a  ceaseless  and  terrible  uproar 
which  came  from  the  ravine  in  front,  and, 
mounting  upward,  seemed  to  shake  the 
earth  on  which  they  trod. 

The  musicians  might  blow  themselves  red 
in  the  face,  the  drummers  beat  the  strained 
sheepskins  to  bursting,  and  make  no  head- 
way against  this  din  of  cannon. 

The  men  of  Boyce's  brigade,  as  they  came 
into  the  little  space  where  they  could  hear 
the  music  above  the  artillery,  and  caught 
the  step  it  was  setting,  hardly  looked  that 
way,  but  pushed  forward  with  eyes  straight 
ahead,  and  grave,  drawn  faces  on  which  the 
cheerful  sunlight  seemed  a  mockery. 


• 


42  A  Day  in  the   V/ilderness. 


When  the  band  had  finished  "  The  Faded 
Coat  of  Blue  "  the  sky  was  still  clear  over- 
head, but  from  the  gully  below  a  dense 
cloud  of  smoke  had  spread  upward  to  choke 
the  morning  light.  While  the  bandsmen 
paused,  blowing  their  instruments  clear  and 
breathing  hard,  this  smoke  began  to  thicken 
the  air  about  the  rock  which  sheltered  them. 

In  a  minute  more  the  front  figures  of  the 
endless  moving:  chain  before  them  seemed 
to  be  walking  of¥  into  a  fog,  and  the  atmos- 
phere was  all  at  once  heavy  with  the  smell 
of  gunpowder. 

Curiously  enough,  the  men's  faces  bright- 
ened at  this.  There  came  a  block  now 
somewhere  on  the  road  ahead,  and  the 
column  halted.  The  regimental  fiags,  with 
the  color-guard,  were  just  abreast  of  the 
band.     The  serseant  took  out  his  knife  to 


'&' 


cut  one  of  the  furling  strings  that  was  in  a 
hard  knot,  and  untied  the  rest,  shaking  out 
the  silken  folds  of  the  banners. 

"  I   always   untie    'em  when   we    get    into 
the  smoke,"  he  said,  speaking  at  large. 


The    Valley  of  Death.  143 

The  drummer-boy  nearest  the  road  moved 
over  to  study  the  flags.  He  held  his  head 
to  one  side  and  scrutinized  them  critically. 

"  No  bullet  holes  in  "em  yet,  to  speak  of, 
I  notice,"  he  remarked  to  the  sergeant,  rais- 
ing a  clear,  sharp  young  voice  above  the 
universal  racket.  "  Guess  you'll  get  enough 
to-day  to  make  up !  "  he  added. 

The  old  sergeant  nodded  his  head. 
"  Something  besides  flags  will  get  holes  in 
'em,  too,"  he  returned,  lifting  his  voice  also, 
like  a  man  talking  in  the  teeth  of  a  roaring 
gale. 

' "  What  are  you }    Michiganders } "  shouted 
the  boy. 

"  No  —  Ohio  !  "  the  sergeant  bawled  back. 
"  When  they  changed  the  corps,  they 
brigaded  us  all  up  fresh,  so  that  we  don't 
know  our  own  mothers.  We've  got  in  with 
some  New  Yorkers  that  ain't  got  no  more 
sense  than  to  chew  fine-cut  tobacco.  You 
can't  raise  a  plug  in  a  whole  regiment  of 
'em.     Regular  pumpkin-heads  !  " 

"  They'll  show  you  fellows  the  way,  down 


144  ^  ^^y  ^^^  ^^^^   Wilderness. 

below  there,  though ! "  retorted  the  boy,  his 
injured  state  pride  adding  shrillness  to  his 
tone.     "  Ohio's  no  good,  anyhow  !  " 

He  instinctively  moved  beyond  reach  of 
the  sergeant's  boot,  as  he  passed  this  last 
remark.  Some  of  the  men  in  the  crowded 
ranks  close  by  laughed  at  his  impudence, 
and  he  himself  was  grinning  with  a  sense 
of  successful  repartee,  when  he  felt  a  hand 
laid  on  his  shoulder.  He  looked  up,  and 
found  himself  confronting  a  young,  fair- 
faced  officer,  who  was  regarding  him  with 
gravely  gentle  eyes. 

"  Don't  say  that  about  any  men  who  are 
going  out  to  die,"  this  officer  said ;  and 
though  he  did  not  seem  to  be  speaking 
loudly,  the  words  fell  very  distinctly.  "  I've 
got  a  brother  at  home  about  your  size. 
So  have  lots  of  the  rest  of  us  here.  We 
want  to  carry  down  there  with  us  a  pleasant 
notion  of  the  last  boy  we  saw." 

"I  was  only  fooling!"  the  drummer-boy 
rejoined. 

There  was  no  time  for  further  words,  as 


The   Valley  of  Death.  145 

the  preparatory  rattle  on  the  drum-edge 
behind  warned  him.  In  another  minute  he 
was  back  in  his  place,  and  the  band  was 
hurling  forth  into  the  general  uproar  the 
strains  of  "  The  Red,  White,  and  Blue." 

The  column  had  begun  to  move  again. 
The  flags,  the  color-guard,  the  young  officer 
with  the  sad,  gentle  eyes,  had  passed  down- 
ward out  of  sight,  and  company  after  com- 
pany of  their  regiment  came  pressing  on- 
ward now. 

The  boy,  as  he  kept  up  with  his  part  of 
the  familiar  work,  watched  these  Ohio  men 
swing  past.  They  seemed  young  fellows, 
for  the  most  part,  and  their  uniforms  were 
significantly  new  and  clean.  Everything 
about  them  showed  that  they  were  going 
under  fire  for  the  first  time,  though  they 
pushed  forward  as  stoutly  as  veterans.  The 
boy  found  himself  hoping  that  a  good  many 
of  these  Ohio  men  would  come  back  all 
right  —  and  most  of  all  that  young  officer 
who  had  a  brother  about  his  size. 

All    this  while   a  group  of   field   officers 


146  A  Day  in  the   Wilderness. 

had  been  standing  on  the  ridge  up  above 
the  rocky  mound  which  sheltered  the  band. 
Their  figures,  with  broad  liats  and  big-cuffed 
gauntlets,  had  grown  indistinct  against  the 
sky  as  the  smoke  thickened.  Now  they 
gave  up  trying  to  follow  through  their 
glasses  the  movements  in  the  vale  below, 
and  turned  to  descend. 

Their  horses,  which  men  had  been  hold- 
ing near  the  musicians,  were  hastily  brought 
forward,  and  the  general  and  his  staff 
sprang  into  the  saddle  and  trotted  over 
toward  the  road. 

The  end  of  the  column  was  in  view, 
with  its  disorder  of  servants,  baggage-car- 
riers, soldiers  who  had  lost  their  places,  and 
behind,  the  looming  canvas  covers  of  am- 
bulance-wagons and  the  train.  Into  the 
thick  of  this  straggling  mass  General 
Boyce,  sitting  splendidly  erect  and  with  a 
bold  smile  on  his  rosy-cheeked  face,  spurred 
his  way,  and  the  staff  in  turn  clattered 
after  him  down  out  of  sis^ht.  The  brigrade 
had  passed,  and  the  band  stopped  playing. 


The   Valley  of  Death.  147 

Files  of  mules,  heavily  laden  with  stacks 
of  cartridge-boxes,  were  still  pouring  along 
the  road  and  being  whacked  down  the 
ravine  path  ;  but  the  big  wagons,  as  they 
came,  halted,  and  were  drawn  off  into  the 
field  to  the  left.  Tall  poles  were  taken 
out  and  set  up.  Coils  of  rope  were  un- 
wound, stakes  driven,  and  huge  cylinders 
of  canvas  unrolled  on  the  grass. 

Soon  there  arose  the  gray  outlines  of 
tents  —  one  dominating  structure  fully 
thirty  yards  long,  and  around  it,  like 
little  mushrooms  about  the  parent  stool,  a 
number  of  smaller  tents,  some  square, 
some  conical.  The  drummer-boy,  his  task 
ended,  sauntered  over  with  his  companions 
toward  the  tents. 

He  paused  to  watch  the  heavy  folds  of 
canvas  being  hauled  up  to  the  ridge-pole 
of  the  big  one.  In  one  way  it  recalled 
those  preparations  on  the  old  circus-ground 
at  home  which  he  used  to  watch  with 
such  zest.  But  in  another  way  it  was 
strangely  different. 


148  A  Day  m  the   Wilderness. 

While  some  men  tugged  at  the  ropes 
or  drove  in  stakes  for  the  guy-lines,  others 
were  busy  bringing  from  the  wagons  rolls 
of  blankets  and  huge  trusses  of  straw. 
Even  before  the  roof  was  secure  scores 
of  rude  beds  were  being  spread  on  the 
trampled  grass  underneath. 

Bearded  and  spectacled  men,  dressed 
after  the  fashion  of  officers,  yet  clearly  not 
soldiers  at  all,  were  directing  everything 
now.  Among  them,  here  and  there,  flitted 
young  women,  clad  also  in  a  sort  of  uni- 
form, who  seemed  busiest  of  all. 

No,  this  was  decidedly  different  from  a 
circus  tent.  The  thunder  of  the  batteries 
on  the  other  side  of  the  ridge  was  alone 
enough  to  throw  a  solemn  meaning  over 
this  long,  barn-like  house  of  ropes  and 
cloths.  It  was  the  brigade  hospital-tent, 
and  the  hundreds  of  active  hands  at  work 
could  hardly  hope  to  have  it  ready  before 
it  was  needed. 

It  was  the  morning  of  the  second  day 
of    the    Battle    of    the    Wilderness.       The 


The   Valley  of  Death.  149 

men  of  Boyce's  brigade  knew  only  vaguely, 
by  hearsay,  of  what  had  happened  on  that 
terrible  yesterday.  They  themselves,  form- 
ing the  rear-guard  of  the  great  army,  had 
been  nearly  the  last  to  cross  the  Rapidan 
on  the  swinging  pontoon  bridge  of  Ger- 
mania  ford.  They  had  had  a  night's 
forced  march ;  a  two  hours'  nap  in  the 
open  starlight;  a  hasty  bite  of  rations  at 
half-past  three  in  the  morning,  and  now 
this  plunge  in  the  chilly  twilight  of  sun- 
rise down  into  the  unknown. 

There  had  been,  just  before  the  general 
advance  across  the  Rapidan,  a  wholesale 
shaking-up  of  army  organization.  Two 
whole  corps  had  been  abolished,  and  their 
strength  distributed  among  the  three  re- 
maining corps.  Regiments  found  them- 
selves suddenly  torn  from  their  old  asso- 
ciates, and  brigaded  with  strangers.  Their 
pet  officers  disappeared,  and  others  took 
their  places  whom  the  men  did  not  know 
and  were  disposed  to  dislike. 

To  add  to  this  discontent,  there  was  an 


150  A   Day  in  the    Wilderness. 

understanding  that  their  leaders  had  been 
entrapped  into  this  Wilderness  fighting. 
Certainly  it  was  no  place  which  an  invad- 
ing army  would  have  chosen  for  battle. 

It  was  a  vast,  sprawling  forest  district, 
densely  covered  with  low  timber,  scrub- 
oak,  dwarf  junipers,  and  tangled  cedars  and 
pines,  all  knit  together  breast-high  and  up- 
ward with  interlacing  wild  vines,  and  foul 
underfoot  with  swamp  or  thicket. 

In  this  gloomy  and  sinister  wilderness 
men  did  not  know  where  they  were,  nor 
whom  they  were  fighting.  Whole  com- 
mands were  lost  in  the  impenetrable 
woods.  Mounted  orderlies  could  not  get 
about  through  the  underbrush,  and  orders 
sent  out  were  never  delivered. 

Though  gulches  and  steep  ravines 
abounded,  cutting  sharp  gashes  through 
the  forest,  there  were  no  hills  upon  which 
a  general  and  his  keen-eyed  staff  might 
perch  themselves  and  get  an  idea  of  how 
the  land  about  them  lay.  The  Confeder- 
ates   had    plenty   of    this    local    knowledge, 


The   Valley  of  Death.  151 

and  used  it  to  terrible  purpose.  The  in- 
vaders could  only  put  their  heads  down,  and 
strive   to   crush    their  way  blindly  through. 

After  a  little,  the  drummer-boy  put  his 
snare-drurn  in  the  wagon  where  the  other 
instruments  were,  and  started  off  up  the 
ridge,  to  see  what  the  general  and  his  staff 
had  been  observing  earlier  in  the  morning. 

As  he  neared  the  summit,  he  noticed 
that  the  roar  of  the  cannon  directly  in 
front  seemed  to  have  died  down  a  good 
deal.  There  were  still  angry  outbursts, 
but  one  had  to  wait  for  them  now;  and  a 
new  kind  of  noise,  made  up  of  peal  after 
peal  of  crackling  musketry  fire,  was  rising 
from  the  gully  farther  to  the  left. 

The  boy  had  come  now  to  the  top  of 
the  ridge,  only  to  find  it  crowned  with  a 
thick  fringe  of  alders  which  completely 
shut  out  his  view.  From  the  roots  of  the 
farther  bushes  the  hillside  dropped  precipi- 
tously. He  worked  his  way  along  until, 
by  a  cleft  in  the  "ocks,  an  opening  offered 
itself. 


152  A  Day  in  the   Wilder^iess. 

Here,  stooping  low  and  bending  aside 
the  alders,  he  could  creep  out  upon  a  big, 
flat,  moss-grown  boulder,  which  overhung 
the  ravine  like  a  balcony.  He  had  not 
thought  he  was  so  high  up.  The  other 
side  of  the  gulf  spread  out  before  him 
could  not  be  seen  for  the  smoke  —  but  the 
tops  of  tall  pines  growing  on  its  bottom 
were  far  below  him. 

The  steepness  of  the  descent  made  him 
dizzy.  The  rock  on  which  he  stood  seemed 
to  be  suspended  in  mid-air.  He  drew 
back  a  little.  Then  curiosity  got  the 
upper  hand.  He  laid  himself  face  down 
on  the  boulder,  and  edged  cautiously  for- 
ward till  he  could  peer  over  its  front. 

The  fog-like  smoke  was  so  dense  that 
at  first  he  could  see  nothing.  Even  when 
the  bearings  of  the  land  below,  masked  as 
it  all  was  under  forest,  began  to  be  appar- 
ent to  him,  his  ears  were  still  the  best 
guide  to  what  was  going  on.  The  con- 
fused sound  of  men's  shouts  and  yells 
mingled  now  with  the    intermittent  volleys 


The   Valley  of  Death.  153 

of  musketry  to  the  left.  The  cannon-firing 
had  stopped  altogether. 

He  discovered  all  at  once  that  a  good 
many  of  the  tree-tops  in  front  of  him 
seemed  to  have  been  broken  off  very  re- 
cently. Some  were  hanging  to  the  trunks 
by  their  bark ;  everywhere  the  splinters 
were  white  and  fresh.  Now  that  he  lis- 
tened more  intently,  there  were  weird 
whistling  noises  among  these  shattered 
boughs  and  an  incessant  dropping  of 
leaves  and  twigs. 

Suddenly  a  big  branch  not  far  away 
shook  violently,  then  toppled  downward. 
At  the  same  moment  a  swift  ring-ins:  buzz 
sounded  just  over  his  head,  and  a  bunch 
of  alder-blossoms  fell  upon  one  of  his 
hands.     He  pulled  himself  back  abruptly. 

Crawling  backward  out  through  the  al- 
ders, he  did  not  venture  to  lift  his  head 
until  there  was  a  comfortable  wall  of  rocks 
between  him  and  that  murderous  ravine. 
Then,  getting  to  his  feet,  he  looked  amazed 
down    upon    the    brigade    camp,    which    he 


154  ^  Day  in  the   Wilderness. 

had  left  an  hour  before.  The  big  tent, 
and  the  Httle  ones  about  it,  only  a  while 
ago  the  scene  of  such  bustling  activity, 
were  all  deserted. 

Some  of  the  wagons  could  be  seen  roll- 
ing and  bumping  off  toward  the  road  to 
the  left  under  drivers  who  stood  up  to 
lash  their  teams.  The  white,  canvas- 
hooped  tops  were  the  centres  of  wild  con- 
fusion. 

Other  drivers  were  scurrying  off  on 
horseback,  leading  with  them  in  a  frantic 
gallop  groups  of  the  team  horses,  pulled 
along  by  their  bunched  reins.  The  peo- 
ple on  foot  —  doctors,  nurses,  camp-guards 
and  the  rest  —  were  all  racing  pell-mell 
toward  the  road  for  dear  life. 

Thunderstruck  at  the  spectacle,  the  boy 
turned  to  the  ris^ht.  A  lons^,  double  line 
of  men  had  come  out  through  the  woods 
in  which  the  ridge  lost  itself,  and  were  ad- 
vancing upon  the  camp  at  a  sharp  run. 
They  seemed  dressed  in  a  sort  of  mud- 
colored    uniform,   and    they   raised    a   sharp 


The    Valley  of  Death.  155 

whoop  of  triumph  as  they  came.  At  the 
farther  end  of  the  hne,  some  of  these  men 
Hfted  their  guns  as  they  ran,  and  fired  into 
the  receding  mass  of  fugitives. 

Down  in  front,  meantime,  the  foremost 
of  the  advancing  Hne  had  reached  the 
camp  and  entered  upon  possession.  They 
had  begun  overhauhng  the  captured  wag- 
ons, and  were  tossing  out  loaves  of  bread 
and  hardtack  boxes,  which  their  comrades, 
fell  upon  eagerly.  The  boy  reflected  now 
that  he  himself  was  hungry,  and  he 
scratched  his  head  with  perplexity. 

The  sound  of  panting  breath  close  be- 
side him  made  him  turn  swiftly.  A  man 
had  clambered  up  the  side  of  the  ridge, 
away  from  the  camp,  and  had  rushed  up 
to  him,  his  eyes  starting  from  his  head 
with  excitement.  He  waved  something 
like  a  short  stick,  with  wild  gestures,  and 
tried  to  shout,  but  could  only  pant  instead. 

He  stopped  as  he  came  up,  stared  at 
the  boy,  then  shook  his  head  dolefully  as 
he  gasped  for  breath. 


156  A  Day  hi  the   Wilderness. 

"  Is  dot  you,  Lafe  ? "  he  managed  to 
groan.     "Oh,  my  jiminy  "priest!  " 

"Look  out!"  cried  the  boy.     "Lie  down!" 

Some  of  the  men  below  had  caught 
sight  of  them,  and  two  or  three  sparks 
and  jets  of  smoke  told  that  they  were 
being  fired  at.  Though  they  were  prob- 
ably beyond  range,  it  was  safer  behind 
the  alders,  so  the  two  crawled  out  on  the 
.overhanging  ledge. 

"  I  say,  Foldeen,  have  they  scooped  the 
old  band  wagon  .'*  I  couldn't  see  from 
here,"  was  the  boy's  first  remark. 

"  Dey  von't  get  'em  my  flute,  anyhow," 
the  other  responded,  holding  proudly  forth 
the  ebony  stock  with  its  silver  keys,  which 
he  had  been  waving  so  vehemently.  "I  don't 
catch  me  putting  him  in  de  bant  vagon." 

Even  as  he  spoke  he  clutched  the  boy 
fiercely  by  the  arm,  with  a  smothered  ex- 
clamation of  horror.  The  rock  on  which 
they  crouched  had  stirred  from  its  founda- 
tions, and  as  the  two  instinctively  strove  to 
turn  themselves,  it  lurched  outward,  and 
went  crashing  down  the  steep  declivity. 


CHAPTER    II. 

LAFE    RECONNOITRES    THE    VALLEY. 

/^~^N  the  river  road  below  the  tannery, 
^■^^  away  back  in  New  York  State,  there 
stood  for  many  years  a  small  house,  always 
surrounded  in  summer  by  sunflowers  and 
hollyhocks  and  peonies  that  enwrapped  it 
as  in  a  beautiful  garment.  It  seemed  that 
flowers  grew  nowhere  else  as  they  did  for 
the  Widow  Hornbeck. 

There  was  no  other  such  show  of  lilacs 
in  Juno  Mills  as  that  which  early  May 
brought  for  her  front  yard.  The  climbing 
roses  which  covered  the  whole  front  and 
side  of  the  poor  little  house  were  only  of 
the  simple,  old  sorts,  —  the  Baltimore  Belle, 
the  yellow  Scotch  and  the  ordinary  pink 
brier,  —  but  they  bore  thick  clusters  of 
delightful  blossoms.     And  in  the  fall,  when 

IS7 


158  A  Day  in  the  Wilderness. 

the  frosts  had  nipped  and  blackened  other 
people's  flowers,  the  asters  and  nasturtiums 
and  gladiolus  in  this  wee  patch  appeared 
unhurt  by  the  weather. 

When  there  was  to  be  a  wedding  in  the 
village,  or  some  celebration  at  the  church 
or  the  school-house,  the  children  always 
went  to  the  Widow  Hornbeck  to  beg  for 
flowers.  Often  they  found  her  sitting  out 
in  her  yard  among  the  plants  she  loved  — 
a  mild-faced,  patient  little  woman,  with 
thin,  bent  shoulders  and  hair  whitened 
before  its  time ;  and  she  would  be  poring 
through  her  spectacles  over  the  same  big 
Book  spread  open  on  her  knees. 

The  spectacle  of  Mrs.  Hornbeck  and  her 
family  Bible,  framed  like  a  picture  in 
vines  and  flowering  shrubs,  grew  pleas- 
antly familiar  to  everybody  in  the  district. 
Strangers  driving  past  used  to  stop  their 
buggies  and  admire  the  place ;  and  they, 
too,  seeing  the  white-haired  owner  sitting 
there,  would  feel  that  her  presence  added 
to  the  charm  of  the  scene 


Lafe  reconnoitres  the   Valley.        159 

The  widow  died  suddenly  one  day  in 
the  autumn  of  1863.  She  was  found  quite 
hfeless,  seated  as  of  old  in  the  garden,  with 
the  old  patient,  wistful  half-smile  on  her 
face,  and  the  old  Book  spread  open  in  her 
lap. 

The  village  was  sad  for  a  day  or  two, 
and  gently  touched  for  a  fortnight.  Then 
the  widow  had  been  forgotten,  and  the 
family  Bible  had  vanished.  The  cottage 
was  taken  for  the  mortgage  upon  it,  and 
its  meagre  contents  went  the  way  of  humble, 
ownerless  thino^s.  Mrs.  Hornbeck  had  been 
very  poor,  and  nothing  was  left  for  her  son. 

In  that  family  Bible  had  been  written 
the  names  of  some  score  of  Hornbecks. 
Aorainst  all  these  names  but  two  a  date  of 
death  had  also  been  inscribed.  One  of 
these  two  names,  the  last  in  the  list,  was 
that  of  the  boy,  now  made  an  orphan,  the 
Benjamin  of  the  widow's  flock.  He  was 
described  on  the  yellowed  page,  in  his 
mother's  scrawling  hand,  as  "Washington 
Lafayette   Hornbeck,  born   April  30,   1850." 


i6o  A  Day  in  the   Wilderness. 

In  real  life  he  had  always  been  known  as 
"Lafe." 

He  grew  up  a  brown-skinned,  hardy  sort 
of  ordinary  boy,  whose  face  might  suggest 
some  acuteness  and  more  resolution,  but 
whom  nobody  thought  of  calling  good- 
looking. 

He  turned  out  to  be  the  best  wrestler 
among  the  village  lads  of  his  age,  and  he 
was  also  the  strongest  swimmer  of  all  the 
lot  who  used  to  go  down,  of  a  summer 
evening,  to  dive  off  the  spring-board  into 
the  deep  pool  below  the  mill-dam.  This 
raised  him  a  good  deal  in  the  esteem  of 
the  boys,  but  somehow  their  elders  were 
not  so  much  impressed  by  "  Lafe's " 
qualities. 

He  had  to  work,  and  he  did  work,  but 
always  at  some  new  job  —  now  berry-pick- 
ing, now  stripping  willows  for  the  basket 
factory,  now  packing  "  heave-powders  "  for 
the  local  horse-doctor.  He  had  been  em- 
ployed in  the  mills  and  m  the  tannery,  and 
he  had  once  travelled  for  a  month  as  the 


Lafe  reconnoitres  the   Valley.        i6i 

assistant  of  a  tin-peddler,  not  to  mention 
various  experiments  in  general  farm-work. 

People  hardly  blamed  Lafe  for  this  lack 
of  steadiness  in  employment.  They  said 
it  was  in  his  blood.  All  the  Hornbecks 
since  any  one,  could  remember  had  been 
musicians  —  playing  the  fiddle  or  whatever 
else  you  liked  at  country  dances,  and  some 
of  them  even  journeying  to  distant  parts  as 
members  of  circus  or  minstrel  bands. 

It  was  felt  that  a  boy  from  such  a  roving 
stock  could  scarcely  be  expected  to  tie 
himself  down  to  regular  work. 

Doubtless  Lafe  felt  this,  too,  for  as  soon 
as  he  began  thinking  what  he  should  do, 
after  the  shock  of  his  mother's  death,  he 
found  himself  wishing  to  be  a  drummer- 
boy.  The  notion  struck  all  the  neighbors 
as  quite  appropriate.  Lafe  was  a  capital 
drummer.  Kind  old  Doctor  Peabody  went 
with  him  to  Tecumseh,  saw  the  head  re- 
cruiting officer  at  the  big  barracks  there, 
and   arranged  matters  for  him. 

Lafe  was  sent  forward  to  New  York,  and 


1 62  A  Day  in  the   Wilderness. 

thence  to  headquarters  at  the  front.  Men 
liked  him,  and  his*  lifelong  familiarity  with 
instruments  made  him  a  handy  boy  to  have 
about.  Before  long  he  was  taken  out  of 
the  little  company  drum-corps,  and  pro- 
moted  to  the  big  brigade   band. 

This  very  morning,  when  he  went  up 
from  the  hospital  camp  to  the  ridge  where 
he  hoped  to  see  the  fighting  beyond,  he 
had  been  thinking  whether  this  promotion 
had  been   what  he  wanted. 

All  his  dreams  had  been  of  action  —  of 
brave  drummer-boys  who  went  into  battle 
with  the  fifes,  and  stood  through  it  all  by 
the  side  of  the  file-leader,  valiantly  pound- 
ing their  sheep-skins  as  the  shot  and  shell 
screamed  past,  and  men  pitched  headlong, 
and  officers  were  hurled  from  their  horses, 
and  the   fight  was  lost  or  won. 

Alas !  a  brigade  band  never  got  so 
much  as  a  whiff  of  actual  warfare,  but 
tamely  stayed  about  in  camp,  playing  selec- 
tions outside  the  general's  headquarters 
while  he  ate  his  dinner,  or  contributing  its 


Lafe  reconnoitres  the   Valley.        163 

quota  to  the  ceremonial  of  a  Sunday  dress- 
parade. 

Perhaps  nothing  more  was  to  be  looked 
for  during  the  long  winter  in  peaceful 
quarters  at  Brandy  Station ;  but  now  that 
spring  had  come,  and  the  grand  advance 
was  begun,  and  battles  were  in  the  air  all 
about  them  —  even  now  the  bandsmen 
merely  gave  the  warriors  a  tune  or  two 
to  start  them  off,  and  then  ingloriously 
loafed  around  the  camp  till  they  returned, 
or  did  not  return,  as  the  case  might  be. 
One  might  almost  as  well  have  stayed  at 
home   in   Juno   Mills! 

The  great  rock  on  which  Lafe  and  the 
German  flute-player  Foldeen  had  taken 
their  station  gave  way  beneath  them,  as 
was  stated  in  the  last  chapter,  and  smashed 
its  way  down  the  steep  hillside,  crushing 
the  brush  and  rooting  up  vines  as  it  went, 
snapping  saplings  like  pipestems,  and  bowl- 
ing over  even  trees  of  a  larger  growth.  It 
brought  up  almost  at  the  bottom  of  the  hill, 
in  the  heart  of  a  clump  of  sturdy  cedars. 


164  A  Day  in  the   Wilderness. 

A  long  gash  of  earth  laid  bare  and  of 
foliage  ripped  and  strewn  aside  stretched 
up  the  incline  to  mark  the  track  of  the 
fallen  boulder.  Half-way  up  this  pathway 
of  devastation  a  boy  presently  appeared. 

Lafe  had  crawled  up  out  of  the  debris  of 
saplings,  boughs,  and  tangled  creepers  into 
which  he  had  been  hurled,  and  clambered 
over  now  to  the  open  space.  Then  he 
stood  looking  up  and  down  ih  a  puzzled 
way,  rubbing  his  head.  His  clothes  were 
torn  a  good  deal,  he  had  lost  his  cap,  and 
he  was  conscious  of  numerous  bruises 
under  these  damaged   clothes  of  his. 

There  was  blood  on  the  palm  of  his 
hand,  which  had  come  from  his  head.  So 
far  as  feeling  could  guide  him,  this,  how- 
ever, was  nothing  but  a  scalp  scratch.  He 
cared  more  about  the  tremendous  bark 
one  of  his  shins  had  got,  close  up  under 
his  knee.  When  he  took  his  first  aimless 
steps,  this  had  already  stiffened,  and  was 
hurting  him. 

Suddenly   he    remembered    that    he    had 


Lafe  reconnoitres  the   Valley.        165 

not  been  alone  on  the  rock.  Foldeen 
Schell  had  been  with  him,  and  had 
grabbed  his  arm  just  as  everything  gave 
way  under  them.  His  wits  were  still  wool- 
gathering under  the  combined  scare  and 
tumble,  and  he  began  mechanically  poking 
about  among  the  underbrush  at  his  feet,  as 
if  the  missing  flute-player  might  be  hidden 
there.  Or  was  he  hunting  for  his  cap  ? 
For  a  dazed  minute  or  two  he  hardly 
knew. 

Then  the  sense  of  bewilderment  lifted 
itself,  and  was  gone.  Lafe  straightened 
himself,  and  looked  comprehensively  about 
him. 

"  Foldeen ! "  he  shouted  shrilly,  and  then 
bent  all  his  powers  of  hearing  for  a  reply. 
There  came  no  answering  call. 

The  air  was  full  of  other  sounds  —  the 
rattling  echoes  of  musketry-firing  and  the 
boom  of  bigger  guns,  some  far  off,  others 
seemingly  near,  all  mingling  here  among  the 
thicket  recesses  in  a  subdued,  continuous 
clamor.     Perhaps  shouting  was  of  no  use. 


1 66  A  Day  in  the   Wilderness. 

Lafe  climbed  up  the  hill  a  dozen  yards  or 
so,  to  a  point  where  he  could  go  no  farther, 
and  scrutinized  his  surroundings  carefully. 
The  impenetrable  wall  of  foliage  shut  out 
the  valley  from  him  even  more  completely 
than  when  he  was  on  the  ridge.  He  called 
again  and  again,  and  explored  the  bushes  on 
either  side,  to  no  purpose. 

Limping  slowly  down  the  track  cleared 
by  the  passing  rock,  he  continued  his  search 
to  the  right  and  left.  He  knew  so  little 
of  how  he  himself  had  escaped  death  that 
there  was  nothing  to  help  him  guess  how  it 
had  fared  with  his  companion. 

He  had  not  known  much  about  this 
missing  bandsman  heretofore,  save  that  he 
seemed  to  be  the  best  fellow  amono^  the 
three  or  four  German  musicians  which  the 
band  contained.  The  boy,  like  the  rest, 
spoke  and  thought  of  all  these  alien  com- 
rades as  "  Dutchmen,"  and  he  was  far  from 
comprehending  that  that  outlandish  name 
"  Foldeen  "  was  only  a  corruption  of  "  Val- 
entine."      But   a  common  misfortune   binds 


Lafe  reconnoitres  the   Valley.        167 

swift  ties,  and  Lafe,  as  he  kept  up  his  quest, 
began  to  think  of  Schell  quite  affectionately. 

He  recalled  how  good-tempered  he  had 
always  been ;  how  he  alone  had  made  jokes 
on  the  long  march,  when  the  cold  and  driv- 
ing rain  had  soured  every  one  else,  and 
empty  stomachs  grumbled  to  keep  company 
with  aching  bones. 

Reflecting  upon  this,  Lafe  realized  that 
he  was  very  fond  of  the  "  Dutchman,"  and 
would  be  in  despair  if  he  had  come  to  grief. 

"  Foldeen ! "  he  yelled  out  again. 

"  Sh  !  sh  !  geeb  guiet !  "  came  a  guttural 
reply,  from  somewhere  near  by. 

The  boy's  heart  lightened  on  the  instant. 
He  looked  hastily  about  him  with  a  cheerful 
eye,  trying  to  trace  the  direction  of  the 
voice.  "  Where  are  you  ? "  he  demanded, 
in  a  lower  tone. 

For  answer,  the  blue-coated  German  rose 
from  a  cover  of  brush,  away  down  the  hill, 
and  beckoned  him,  enforcing  at  the  same 
time  by  emphatic  gestures  the  importance 
of  coming  noiselessly. 


1 68  A  Day  in  the   Wilderness. 

Lafe  stole  down  furtively,  and  in  a  minute 
was  bending  close  beside  Foldeen  in  shrubby 
shelter. 

"  Get  hurt  any  ? "  Lafe  asked,  subduing 
his  voice  almost  to  a  whisper  in  deference  to 
the  other's  visible  anxiety. 

Foldeen  shook  his  head.  "  It  is  much 
worse,"  he  murmured  back.  "  I  have  my 
flute  lost." 

The  boy  could  not  but  smile.  "  We  can 
thank  our  stars  we  weren't  both  smashed  to 
atoms,"  he  observed. 

"  Sh-h  !  don't  talk  !  "  Foldeen  adjured  him, 
and  indicated  with  a  sidewise  nod  of  the 
head  that  special  reasons  for  silence  lay  in 
that  direction. 

Lafe  edged  himself  forward,  and  looked 
out  through  the  bushes.  They  were  on  the 
crest  of  a  little  mound  which  jutted  out 
slightly  from  the  descending  face  of  the 
hillside.  The  bottom  of  the  ravine  lay  only 
thirty  feet  or  so  below  them. 

Save  for  scattered  clumps  of  dwarf  firs, 
hardly  higher  than  the  mullein  stalks  about 


Lafe  reconnoitres  the    Valley.        169 

them,  the  ground  was  clear,  and  the  short 
grass  told  Lafe's  practised  eye  that  it  was 
pasture  land.  Beyond,  there  was  the  grav-* 
elled  bed  of  a  stream,  along  which  a  small 
rivulet  wandered  from  side  to  side. 

At  the  first  glance  his  eye  had  taken  in 
various  splashes  of  color  dotting  the  grass, 
which  suggested  bluebells.  He  saw  now 
that  these  were  made  by  the  uniforms  of 
men,  who  lay  sprawled  in  various  unnatural 
postures,  flat  on  the  green  earth.  Most  of 
them  were  on  their  faces,  and  not  one  of 
them  stirred.  Lafe  moved  his  head  about 
among  the  screening  bushes,  and  was  able  to 
count  twenty-six  of  these  motionless  figures. 

The  boy  had  seen  such  sights  before,  and 
had  even  helped  bring  in  the  wounded  from 
the  field  of  Payne's  Farm  during  the  most  of 
a  long,  cold  night  in  the  previous  November. 
This  experience  guided  him  now  to  remark 
a  curious  thing.  No  muskets,  knapsacks,  or 
canteens  were  scattered  about  beside  these 
fallen  men.  And  another  odd  detail  —  they 
were  all  barefooted. 


lyo  A  Day  in  the   Wilderness. 

"  Some  one's  been  along,  after  the  fight- 
ing was  over,  and  skinned  everything 
clean,"  he  muttered  to  his  companion. 

Foldeen  nodded  again,  and  once  more 
held  up  a  warning  hand.  He  himself  was 
intently  watching  something  beneath,  from 
his  side  of  the  leafy  cover.  The  boy 
shifted  his  position,  and  craning  his  *  neck 
over  the  other's  shoulder,  saw  that  just 
below  them,  where  the  ascent  began,  there 
stretched  a  rough,  newly  made  ridge  of 
sods,  fence  rails  and  tree-tops,  which  had 
evidently  been  used  as  a  breastwork. 

Behind  this  there  were  other  human 
forms,  also  lying  prone,  but  clad  in  gray 
or  butternut  instead  of  blue.  Here,  too, 
there  was  no  sign  of  life,  but  only  that 
fixed  absence  of  motion  to  which  the 
remote  thunder  of  gun-fire  gave  such  a 
bitter  meaning. 

"  Anybody  there  ?  "  whispered  the  boy. 

"  I  dink  so,"  returned  Foldeen,  under  his 
breath.  "  Dere  is  some,  what  you  call  it, 
hanky-banky,  goes  on  here.  Look  your- 
self!" 


Lafe  reconnoitres  the    Valley.        171 

He  moved  aside,  and  Lafe  crowded  into 
his  place,  and  put  his  head  out  cautiously 
through  the  bushes.  In  one  corner  of  the 
breastwork  there  was  to  be  seen  a  big 
pile  of  accoutrements  —  knapsacks,  muskets, 
swords,  water-bottles,  and  the  like,  as  well 
as  a  heap  of  old  boots  and  miscellaneous 
foot-gear. 

"  Veil,  how  you  make  it  out } "  asked 
Foldeen. 

Lafe  drew  in  his  head.  "  The  way  I 
figure  it,"  he  whispered,  "  is  first,  that  they 
held  this  place  against  our  men,  and  drove 
'em  off.  Then  they  went  out,  and  gathered 
up  these  traps,  and  brought  'em  in  there. 
Then  some  more  of  our  men  came  along, 
and  chased  them  out.  That's  what  it  looks 
like." 

"  Well,  den,  vare  is  gone  dem  second 
men  of  ours } "  the  German  demanded. 

"  They've  gone  after  'em,  up  the  valley, 
there." 

Foldeen  shook  his  head.  "  Dey  don't  do 
such  foolishness,"  he  objected.     "  Ven   dey 


172  A  Day  in  the   Wilderness. 

take  some  place  like  dis,  den  dey  shtick 
to  him.  I  know  so  much,  if  I  do  blay 
mid  the  band." 

"  There'd  be  rations  in  the  knapsacks," 
mused  Lafe,  after  a  pause.  He  had  never 
been  so  hungry  before  in  his  life. 

"  What  do  you  say  to  sneaking  down 
there,  and  trying  to  find  something  to 
eat?  "  he  suggested.  "Come  on!"  he  added 
persuasively.  "  There's  nobody  down  there 
that  —  nobody  that  we  need   be  afraid   of." 

"  Veil,  I  am  afraid,  dot's  all,"  responded 
Foldeen. 

"  They  can't  do  more  than  make  us  pris- 
oners," urged  the  boy,  "and  that's  better 
than  starving  to  death.  Come  on !  I'm 
going  to  make  a  try." 

The  German  took  his  companion  by  the 
arm.  "  See  here,"  he  explained ;  "  ven  dey 
catch  you,  dot's  all  right.  You  are 
prisoner;  dot's  all.  Ven  dey  catch  me, 
den  it  goes  one,  two,  dree  —  bang,  und  den 
Foldeen  Schell  addends  his  own  funeral. 
Dot's  the  difference  by  you  und  me." 


Lafe  reconnoitres  the    Valley.        173 

"  Nonsense  !  "  said  Lafe.  "  They  don't 
shoot  anybody  in  the  band." 

"  Anyhow,  dey  shoot  me  out  of  de  band," 
persisted  Foldeen,  gloomily.  "  I  was  in  dot 
oder  army  myself,  sometimes." 

The  boy  drew  a  long  breath  of  en- 
lightened surprise,  which  was  almost  a 
whistle. 

"  Well,  then,  you  stay  here,"  he  said,  after 
a  little,  "  and  I'll  take  a  look  at  the  thing 
by  myself." 

Suiting  the  action  to  the  word,  Lafe  laid 
hold  of  the  stoutest  saplings,  and  lowered 
himself  down  by  his  arms  to  the  ledge 
below.  The  footing  was  not  quite  easy ; 
but  by  hanging  to  the  vines  he  managed 
to  work  his  way  obliquely  across  the  face 
of  the  declivity,  and  yet  keep  pretty  well 
under  cover  of  the  bushes. 

Suddenly,  emerging  from  the  thicket,  he 
found  himself  quite  inside  the  breastwork, 
which  he  had  entered  from  the  open  rear. 
The  more  terrible  signs  of  the  conflict 
which   had    been   waQ-ed    here   a   few   hours 


174  -^  Day  in  the   Wilderness. 

before   forced    themselves    upon    his    atten- 
tion, first  of  all. 

He  braced  himself  to  walk  past  them, 
and  to  go  straight  to  the  heap  of  knap- 
sacks piled  up  among  the  branches  in  the 
corner. 

Lifting  one  of  the  haversacks,  he  opened 
it.  There  was  a  tin  cup  on  top,  and  some 
woollen  things  which  might  be  socks. 
Pushing  his  hand  under  these,  he  came 
upon  some  bread,  and  paused  to  express 
his  content  by  a  smile. 

"  Drop  it  —  you  !  " 

A  loud,  peremptory  voice  close  at  his 
shoulder  caused  the  boy  to  turn  with 
alarmed  abruptness.  A  burly  man,  with 
a  rough,  sandy  stubble  of  beard  about  his 
face,  had  come  into  the  breastwork  —  or. 
perhaps  had  been  hidden  there  all  the  while. 

Lafe's  first  impulse  was  one  of  satisfaction 
at  noting  that  the  stranger  wore  the  blue 
Union  uniform. 

Then  he  looked  into  the  man's  face,  and 
the  instinct  of  pleasure  died  suddenly  away. 


CHAPTER   III. 

THE    BOUNTY-JUMPER. 

'\A7'HEN  Lafe  Hornbeck  looked  into  the 
countenance  of  the  strange  man  who 
appeared  thus  unexpectedly  before  him  in 
the  deserted  breastwork,  it  needed  no 
second  glance  to  tell  him  that  he  had  to 
deal  with  a  scoundrel.  A  threateninor  and 
formidable  scoundrel  he  seemed,  too,  with 
his  heavy,  slouching  shoulders,  his  long 
arms  ending  in  huge,  hairy  hands,  and  the 
surly  scowl  on  his  low-browed,  frowzy  face. 
He  wore  the  dark-blue  jacket  and  light- 
blue  trousers  of  the  Federal  infantry,  and 
their  relative  newness  showed  that  he  was 
a  fresh  recruit.  His  badge  was  the  Maltese 
cross  of  the  Fifth  Corps,  and  its  color,  red, 
indicated  the  First  Division.  This  was  the 
corps  and  division  of  Boyce's  brigade. 

N  177 


178  A  Day  in  the   Wilderness. 

Even  in  the  first  minute  of  surprised 
scrutiny  of  the  fellow  Lafe  found  himself 
thinking  that  he  probably  belonged  to  that 
Ohio  regiment  which  he  had  seen  bringing 
up  the   rear  of  the  line  forming  for  battle. 

"  Drop  it,  I  say ! "  the  man  repeated, 
harshly. 

Lafe  drew  his  hand  from  the  haversack 
slowly  and  reluctantly, 

"  There's  enough  more  of  'em  here,"  he 
protested,  nodding  at  the  pile  in  the  corner 
of  the  earthwork.  "  I  haven't  had  a  mouth- 
ful since  before  sunrise,  and  I'm  hungry." 

"  Where 'd  you  come  from,  anyway,  and 
what  business  have  you  got  here  ? "  the 
other  demanded,  with  an  oath  and  a  for- 
ward step. 

"  I'm  Fifth  Corps,  same  as  you  are,"  re- 
plied Lafe,  making  an  effort  to  keep  his 
voice  bold  and  firm,  "  and  I  came  here  by 
tumbling  head  over  heels  down  that  hill 
there,  right  spang  from  top  to  bottom." 
He  took  courage  from  the  indecision  ap- 
parent   in    the    man's    eyes    to    add,    "  And 


The  Bounty-j2iinper.  1 79 

that's  why  I'm  going  to  have  something 
to  eat." 

The  stranger  gave  a  grunt,  which,  bad- 
tempered  though  it  was,  did  not  seem  to 
forbid  the  action,  and  Lafe  drew  forth  the 
bread  again.  It  was  dry  and  tasteless 
enough,  but  he  almost  forgot  to  look  at 
his  unwelcome  companion  in  the  satisfac- 
tion which  he  had  in  gulping  down  the  food. 

The  man  lounged  over  to  the  pile  of  hav- 
ersacks, muskets,  and  clothing,  and  seemed 
to  be  trying  to  make  out  whether  any- 
thing was  missing.  He  grunted  again,  and 
turned  to  Lafe  just  as  the  last  crust  was 
disappearing. 

"  You're  a  drummer,  ain't  you }  "  he  said 
roughly.     "  Where  do  you  belong }  " 

Lafe  held  up  his  hand  to  signify  that 
his  mouth  was  too  full  to  talk.  "  Boyce's 
brigade,"  he  explained,  after  a  little. 

"  That  ain't  what  I  asked.  What's  your 
regiment  ? " 

"  Haven't  got  any  regiment,"  replied  Lafe. 
*'  I'm  in  the  brisfade  band." 

o 


i8o  A  Day  in  the   Wilderness. 

"  Oh ! "  growled  the  man,  and  turned  on 
his  heel.  The  information  seemed  to  re- 
lieve his  mind,  for  when  he  had  taken  a 
few  loitering  steps  about  the  enclosure,  and 
confronted  Lafe  again,  his  tone  was  less 
quarrelsome.  "  Left  the  hospital  camp  up 
there,  eh  '^.  "  he  asked,  with  a  sidelong 
nod  of  his  head  toward  the  top  of  the 
hill. 

"  Well,  yes  —  and  no,"  responded  the  boy. 
"  It  was  there  when  I  left  it,  but  it  ain't 
there  now.  Or  rather,  it  is  there,  but  we 
ain't  there." 

"  What  are  you  driving  at  ? "  the  man 
demanded,  once  more  in  a  rougher  voice. 

"  The  rebs  have  gobbled  it,"  said  Lafe. 
"  Our  folks  were  skedaddling  and  the  rebs 
were  coming  in  the  last  I  saw." 

The  man  gave  a  low  whistle  of  surprise 
and  interest.  He  began  walking  about 
again,  bending  his  ugly  brows  in  thought 
meanwhile.  From  time  to  time  he  paused 
to  ask  other  questions,  as  to  which  way 
the  people   of   the   brigade  camp  had  fled, 


The  Botinty-Jumper.  i8l 

how  large  was  the  force  which  had  capt- 
ured the  camp,  and  the  Hke. 

The  news  evidently  impressed  him  a 
good  deal.  Lafe  got  the  idea  that  some- 
how it  changed  his  plans.  What  were 
these  plans  .f*  the  boy  wondered.  The 
whole  thing  was  very  hard  to  make  out. 
More  than  once  he  had  had  it  in  mind  to 
say  that  he  had  left  another  member  of 
the  band,  a  very  nice  fellow  indeed,  up  on 
the  side-hill  above  them,  who  must  also 
be  hungry,  and  to  suggest  that  he  should 
call  him  down. 

But  every  time,  when  this  rose  to  his 
tongue,  a  glance  at  the  evil  face  of  the 
man  restrained  him.  He  could  not  but 
remember  what  Foldeen  had  hinted,  that 
there  was  some  "  deviltry "  going  on  down 
below  here.     What  was  it.'^ 

"  There  must  have  been  some  pretty 
tough  fighting  right  here,"  he  ventured  to 
remark,  after  a  while. 

"  You  bet  there  was ! "  the  other  as- 
sented.    He   seemed    not   averse  to  a  little 


1 82  A  Day  in  the   Wilderness. 

talk,  though  his  mind  was  still  on  other 
things. 

"  I  don't  quite  figure  it  out,"  the  boy 
went  on,  cautiously.  "  Of  course,  wrast- 
ling  round  in  the  woods  like  this,  you 
can't  make  head  nor  tail  of  how  thinors 
go,  or  who's  on  top,  or  where  —  but  how 
does  it  stand  —  right  here,  I  mean.?  We're 
in  our  own  lines  here,  ain't  we  t " 

The  stranger  fixed  a  long,  inquiring 
glance  upon  the  boy's  face.  Lafe  returned 
the  gaze  with  all  the  calmness  he  could 
muster.  He  could  not  help  feeling  that 
there  was  a  good  deal  of  stupidity  in  the 
stare  under  which  he  bore  up.  The  man 
was  not  quick-minded ;  that  was  clear 
enough.  But  it  was  also  plain  that  he 
was  both  a  stubborn  and  a  brutal  creature. 

"  Yes,"  he  growled,  after  he  had  stared 
Lafe  out  of  countenance,  "  yes,  these  are 
our  own  lines." 

The  phrase  seemed  to  tickle  his  fancy, 
for  something  like  the  beginning  of  a  grin 
stirred    on    the  stubbly  surface   about    his 


The  Bounty- Jumper.  183 

mouth.  "Yes  —  our  own  lines,"  he  re- 
peated. How  strange  it  was !  All  at 
once,  like  a  flash,  Lafe  remembered  having 
seen  this  man  before.  That  slow,  sulky 
wavering  of  a  grimace  on  his  lips  be- 
trayed him.  Swiftly  pursuing  the  clue,  the 
boy  reconstructed  in  his  mind  a  scene  in 
which    this  man  had  played  the  chief  part. 

It  must  have  been  in  the  early  part  of 
the  previous  December  —  just  after  the 
army  went  into  winter  quarters  behind  the 
line  of  the  Orange  railroad,  cooped  up  in 
its  earth-huts  all  the  way  from  Culpeper 
Court  House  to  Brandy  Station.  Lafe  had 
gone  over  on  leave  one  afternoon  to  the 
corps  headquarters  —  it  must  have  been  of 
a  Thursday,  because  there  was  to  be  a 
military  execution  the  next  day,  and  these 
were  always  fixed  for  Friday. 

The  army  was  then  receiving  almost 
weekly  large  batches  of  raw  recruits,  sent 
from  the  big  cities,  some  the  product  of 
the  draft,  others  forwarded  by  the  enlist- 
ment  bureaus.      Among   these   new-comers 


184  A  Day  m  the   Wilderness. 

were  many  good  citizens  and  patriots;  but 
there  were  also  a  great  many  cowards  and 
a  considerable  number  of  scoundrels  who 
made  a  business  of  enlisting  to  get  the 
bounty,  deserting  as  soon  as  they  could, 
and  enlisting  again  from  some  other  point. 

To  prevent  wholesale  desertions,  both 
of  the  cowards  and  the  "  bounty-jumpers," 
the  utmost  vigilance  was  needed.  Their 
best  chance  to  run  away  was  offered  by 
picket  duty,  when  they  found  themselves 
posted  out  in  comparative  solitude,  in  the 
dark,  on  the  very  outskirts  of  the  army 
line. 

To  checkmate  this,  a  cordon  of  cavalry 
had  to  be  drawn  still  farther  out  than  the 
pickets  —  cavalry-men  who  slept  all  day, 
and  at  night  patrolled  the  uttermost  con- 
fines of  the  great  camp,  watching  with  all 
their  eyes  and  ears,  ready  on  the  instant 
to  clap  spurs  and  ride  down  any  skulking 
wretch  who  could  be  discovered  attempt- 
ing his  escape. 

Even    in    the    teeth    of    this    precaution, 


The  Bounty- Jumper.  185 

the  attempts  were  continually  made,  and 
it  was  the  rarest  event  for  a  Friday  to 
pass  without  the  spectacle  of  summary 
punishment  being  meted  out  to  some  capt- 
ured deserter  on  the  corps'  shooting- 
ground.  Often  there  were  more  than  one 
of  these  victims  to  martial  law. 

Lafe  now  remembered  how,  with  a  boy's 
curiosity,  he  had  prowled  about  the  provost 
marshal's  guard  quarters,  fascinated  by  the 
idea  tliat  inside  the  log  shanty,  where  the 
two  sentinels  with  fixed  bayonets  walked 
constantly  up  and  down,  there  were  men 
condemned  to  be  shot  at  six  the  following 

o 

morning. 

Standing  around,  and  gossiping  amiably 
with  these  sentinels,  who  shared  the  com- 
mon feeling  of  the  army  in  making  pets 
of  the  drummer-boys,  he  had  managed  at 
last  to  get  a  glimpse  at  one  of  these  fated 
prisoners. 

A  face  had  appeared  at  the  little  win- 
dow, square-cut  in  the  logs.  It  was  a  bad, 
unkempt   face,    with    a    reddish    stubble    of 


1 86  A  Day  in  the   Wilderness. 

beard  on  jaws  and  cheek.  There  may  have 
been  some  rough  jest  passed  by  the  other 
prisoners  inside  the  hut,  for  as  the  boy 
watched  this  face,  a  grim,  mean  sort  of  smile 
flickered  momentarily  over  it. 

Then  the  face  itself  disappeared,  and  left 
the  boy  marvelling  that  a  man  could  grin 
in  presence  of  the  fact  that  he  was  to  be 
shot  on  the  morrow. 

The  smile,  and  the  countenance  it  played 
upon  for  that  instant  of  time,  burned' them- 
selves into  his  memory.  Lafe  racked  his 
brain  now  for  some  recollection  of  having 
heard  that  these  particular  prisoners  were 
reprieved,  or  had  succeeded  in  escaping 
from  their  log  jail.  His  memory  was  a 
blank  on  the  subject.  Yet  he  felt  sure 
that  the  face  he  had  seen  at  that  window 
was  the  identical  face  he  now  saw  before 
him. 

For  the  life  of  him,  he  could  not  resist 
the  temptation  to  venture  upon  this  dan- 
gerous topic. 

"  You're     one     of     the     new     regiments 


The  Bounty-Jumper.  187 

brought  over  to  us  from  the  old  First 
Corps,  ain't  you  ? "  he  asked,  with  an  effort 
at  an  ingratiating  tone. 

The  man  nodded  his  head  in  indifferent 
assent.  He  seemed  to  be  Hstening  intently 
to  the  sounds  of  battle  in  the  air.  These 
were  reduced  now  to  faint,  far-away  crack- 
lings of  rifle-firing,  as  if  only  distant  sharp- 
shooters were  engaged. 

"  Suppose  this  is  about  the  first  time 
you've  been  under  fire,  then,"  Lafe  re- 
marked. He  added,  with  a  bragging  air: 
"  I  was  all  through  the  Payne's  Farm  and 
Mine  Run  racket  last  November !  That 
was  hot  enough,   I  tell  you ! " 

The  man  made  that  inarticulate  grunt 
of  contempt  which  we  try  to  convey  by 
the  word  humph  !  "  So  was  I,"  he  growled, 
"  and  plenty  more  fights  worse  than  them." 

"  Oh,  got  your  discharge  and  'listed 
again  t  "  commented  the  boy. 

Again  the  stranger  turned  upon  him  that 
steady,  dull  stare  of  inquiry  —  like  the  gaze 
of   a  vicious  ox.       He   seemed    satisfied    at 


1 88  A  Day  in  the   Wilderness. 

length  with  the  artlessness  of  Lafe's  coun- 
tenance, but  did  not  trouble  himself  to 
answer  his  suggestion. 

"  What  do  you  figure  on  doin'  with  your- 
self ? "  he  abruptly  asked  the  boy,  after  a 
pause. 

"  How  do  I  know  ?  "  retorted  Lafe.  "  I'd 
try  and  join  brigade  headquarters,  if  I  knew 
where  they  were,  but  I  don't.  The  next 
best  thing  is  to  try  and  find  some  other 
brigade's  headquarters.  It's  all  clear  enough 
outside  here  now.  I  guess  I'll  take  some 
bread  with  me,  and  make  a  break  through 
the  woods  down  the  run  there.  I'll  fetch 
up  somewhere,   all  right." 

He  bent  over  the  pile  of  knapsacks,  as  if 
to  pick  one  of  them  up. 

"  No,"  the  man  called  out.  "  Leave  'em 
alone!  You  can't  take  no  more  of  them 
rations,  and  you  can't  go  down  the  run. 
You  can't  go  anywhere." 

Lafe  straightened  himself.  "  Why  not }  " 
he  asked,  with   an  assumption   of   boldness. 

"  Because  you  can't,"  the  other  retorted 
curtly. 


The  Bounty -Jumper.  189 

"  What  can  I  do,  then  ?  "  Lafe  inquired 
defiantly. 

The  man  looked  him  over.  "  You  can 
turn  up  your  toes  to  the  daisies  in  about 
another  minute,  if  you  don't  mind  your  own 
business.  That's  what  you  can  do,"  he  re- 
marked, with  an  ugly  frown. 

"What's  the  use  of  talking  that  way.?" 
said  Lafe.  "  I  haven't  done  you  any  harm, 
have  I.?" 

"  No  —  and  you  ain't  going  to,  either," 
was  the  reply. 

The  stranger,  as  he  spoke,  took  a  two- 
barrelled  pistol  from  his  inside  jacket-pocket. 
It  was  a  beautiful  weapon,  ornamented  with 
a  good  deal  of  chased  silver.  Lafe  had  seen 
pistols  like  this  before,  in  the  possession  of 
officers,  and  knew  that  they  were  called 
Derringers.  Private  soldiers  were  not  likely 
to  carry  weapons  of  that  sort. 

He  was  sure  that  this  man  must  have 
stolen  the  pistol,  and  the  conviction  did 
not  assist  Lafe  to  calmness,  as  he  observed 
the   man   push    one    of    the    hammers    back 


190  A  Day  in  the   Wilderness. 

with  his  thumb  to  full-cock.  It  is  as  bad 
to  be  shot  by  stolen  firearms  as  by  those 
which  have  been  bought  and  paid  for. 

The  stranger  drew  from  another  pocket 
a  gold  watch,  with  a  long  loop  of  broad 
black  silk  braid  hanging  from  its  ring. 
He  held  it  in  the  palm  of  his  free  hand, 
and  glanced  at  its  open  face. 

"  It  must  be  getting  along  toward  noon," 
Lafe  had  the  temerity  to  remark.  There 
were  cold  shivers  through  his  veins,  but 
he  managed  to  keep  his  tongue  steady. 
If  "cheek"  could  not  help  him,  nothing 
could. 

"  About  as  nigh  noon  as  you're  ever  likely 
to  git,"  said  the  other,  making  a  pretence  of 
again  consulting  the  watch. 

Instinct  told  the  lad  with  a  flashlight 
swiftness  that  this  looking  at  the  watch 
was  buncombe.  Men  who  really  meant  to 
kill  did  not  parade  timepieces  like  that. 

"  I  haven't  got  anything  on  me  that 
would  be  of  any  use  to  you,"  he  said, 
with     an     immense     effort     at     unconcern. 


The  Bounty -Jumper.  191 

"  Even  if  I  had,  you  wouldn't  need  a  gun 
to  take  it  away  from  me." 

"  You've  got  a  mouth  on  you,"  said  the 
man,  eying  him,  "  and  it'll  be  of  use  to 
me  to  shut  it  up." 

He  lifted  the  pistol  as  he  spoke,  and 
Lafe  instinctively  closed  his  eyes,  with  a 
confused  rush  of  thoughts  in  which  he 
seemed  to  see  his  old  mother  sitting  in 
the  garden  with  the  Book  on  her  knees, 
and  also  the  young  Ohio  officer,  who  some- 
how came  in  among  the  tall  flowers  beside 
her,  and  these  flowers  themselves  were  the 
regimental  flags  which  the  color-sergeant 
was  unfurling. 

Then,  as  nothing  happened,  the  boy 
opened  his  eyes  again,  and  found  himself 
able  to  look  into  the  two  black  disks  of 
the  Derrinojer's  muzzle  without  flinchins:. 

He  could  even  look  beyond  the  muzzle, 
as  the  barrels  sloped  downward  toward 
him,  and  he  now  saw  distinctly  that  the 
two  little  upright  steel  nipples  bore  no 
caps.      The   discovery   made    him    annoyed 


192  A  Day  in  the   Wilderness. 

at  his  own  cowardice.  It  was  easier  now 
to  be  bold. 

"  What's  your  idea,  anyway }  "  he  asked 
the  man,  with  an  added  effrontery  in  his 
tone.  "  If  you'd  been  going  to  shoot,  you'd 
have  done  it  long  ago.  This  thing  doesn't 
scare  me  at  all,  and  I  don't  see  how  it 
does  you  any  good.  What  are  you  getting 
at,  anyhow  1  " 

"I'd  as  soon  shoot  you  as  look  at  you!" 
the  other  declared  with  angry  emphasis, 
but  lowering  the  weapon. 

"  Yes,  but  seeing  you  ain't  going  to  shoot, 
what  are  you  going  to   do }  "     Lafe  put  in. 

The  rufifian  eyed  him  again.  "  If  I  agree 
not  to  hurt  you,  will  you  do  what  I  tell 
you  ?  "  he  demanded. 

"  W^ell,  maybe  I  will,"  replied  the  boy. 
His  spirits  rose  as  his  contempt  for  this 
slow  and  shilly-shallying  sort  of  scoundrel 
increased.  "  What  is  it  you  want  me  to 
do } " 

"  I  want  you  to  help  me  carry  some  things 
I've  got    together  over  there,  on  the   other 


The  Bounty-Jumper.  193 

side  of  the  creek.  We'll  go  over  now,  and 
bring  'em  back  here." 

"  I'll  take  another  bite  of  bread,  first,"  it 
occurred  to  the  boy  to  say.  He  lifted  a 
haversack,  and  shoved  in  one  hand  to 
burrow  among  its  contents,  while  with  his 
foot,  as  if  by  accident,  he  pushed  one  of 
the  muskets  lengthwise  so  that  he  might 
grab  it  the  more  readily  if  occasion  required. 

Biting  in  leisurely  fashion  on  the  new 
crust  he  had  found,  Lafe  felt  emboldened 
to  make  the  conversation  personal. 

"  That's  a  mighty  fine  watch  you've  got 
there,"  he  remarked,  affably.  "  I  suppose 
it  went  with  the  pistol  —  sort  o'  thrown  in, 
like." 

The  man  put  the  watch  back  into  his 
trousers  pocket.  He  seemed  for  a  moment 
disposed  to  annoyance.  Then  the  furtive, 
mean  grin  curled  over  the  lower  part  of 
his  face.  "  Yes  —  it  was  thrown  in,"  he 
replied,  almost  with  a  chuckle.  "  Come 
on,"  he  added.  "  You  can  chew  that  bread 
as  you  go  along." 


194  ^  Z?<2y  in  the   Wilderness. 

"  But  what  am  I  to  get  ?  "  the  boy  querier^, 
slowly  turning  the  crust  over  to  select  a 
place  for  the  next  bite.  "  Do  I  come  in 
for  any  watches  and  silver-mounted  Der- 
ringers,  too  ?  " 

"  You  jest  help  me  for  all  you're  worth," 
replied  the  man,  after  a  moment's  pause, 
"  and  I'll  see  to  it  you  git  something  worth 
your  while." 

"  It's  got  to  be  something  pretty  good," 
said  Lafe,  meditatively  chewing  on  the 
hard  bread.  "  A  fellow  can't  be  expected 
to  risk  the  chance  of  being  shot  for  noth- 
ing." 

"  There  ain't  no  danger  of  gittin'  shot," 
the  other  replied. 

"Well,  hung,  then,"  Lafe  said  impudently. 

"  What's  that  you  say  t "  the  man  growled, 
with  reawakened  suspicion.  "  Who  said 
anything  about  hangin' }  What  kind  o' 
nonsense  are  you  talkin',  anyway }  " 

It  might.be  a  desperately  foolish  thing 
to  do,  but  Lafe  could  not  hold  himself  from 
doing  it  —  and  for  that  matter  didn't  try. 


Lafe  and  thp:  Bounty-Jumper. 


The  Bounty-Jumper.  197 

"  Why,  they  hang  men  caught  robbing 
the  dead  on  battle-fields,  don't  they  —  spe- 
cially when  they're  bounty-jumpers  to  begin 
with  ?  " 

He  had  called  this  out  as  swiftly  as  he 
could,  holding  himself  in  readiness  as  he 
spoke,  and  now  he  pounced  downward,  and 
clutching  the   musket,  lifted    it  for  defence. 

The  man  sjDrang  forward  with  a  quicker 
motion  than  the  boy  had  counted  upon,  and 
before  Lafe  had  got  erect  he  felt  the  stifling 
grasp  of  big,  hard  fingers  around  his  throat. 


CHAPTER    IV. 

RED    PETE    IN    CAPTIVITY. 

THINGS  grew  black  before  Lafe's  eyes 
as  the  iron  clutch  about  his  throat 
tightened.  He  strove  desperately  to  twist 
himself  loose,  using  in  a  frantic  way  the 
wrestling  tricks  he  knew;  but  the  grip  of 
the  bounty-jumper  was  too  powerful.  Lafe's 
head  seemed  swelling  in  the  effort  to  burst, 
and  feeling  in  all  his  body  below  that  fatal 
circlet  became  numb.  There  was  room  for 
but  a  single  thought  —  this  was  what  being 
choked  to  death  meant ! 

Afterward  it  never  seemed  to  the  boy 
that  he  entirely  lost  consciousness.  He 
could  remember  that  there  was  a  violent 
sidewise  jerk  at  his  neck,  and  then  the 
sense  of  intolerable  squeezing  there  ceased. 

But  there  was   still   an  awful  buzzing  in- 


Red  Pete  in  Captivity.  199 

side  his  head,  and  midnight  blackness,  shot 
with  interlacing  lines  of  crazy  light,  spread 
itself  indefinitely  about  him. 

Gradually  he  perceived  that  he  was 
breathing  again,  and  that  he  could  feel 
his  arms  and  legs  once  more  to  be  parts 
of  him.  He  knew  that  he  was  exceedingly 
tired  and  sleepy,  and  felt  only  that  the  one 
desirable  thing  was  to  lie  still,  just  as  he 
was.  He  mentally  resolved  that  he  would 
not  stir  nor  open  his  eyes  for  anybody. 
"■How  vas  it  mit  you,  Lafe?'" 
The  words  were  undoubtedly  in  the  air. 
He  realized  that,  and  lay  very  still,  lazily 
confident  that  he  would  hear  them  ao^ain. 
Things  began  to  assort  themselves  in 
his  brain.  Foldeen  and  he  had  been  on  a 
big,  overhanging  rock,  which  had  tumbled 
with  them,  and  by  some  chance  they  hadn't 
both  been  killed,  and  now  Foldeen  was 
looking  for  him.  But  he  would  lie  still 
and   rest. 

"  Vake  up !     Lafe  !     Vake  up  !  " 

The   boy   heard    these    words,   too.     The 


200  A   Day  in  the    Wilderness. 

heavy  drowsiness  upon  him  seemed  to  be 
hfting,  and  he  felt  some  one  fumbHng  at 
Ms  breast,  inside  his  shirt.  On  the  instant 
he  was  awake  and  sitting  up,  wonderingly 
staring. 

A  tall  figure  had  risen  away  from  him  as 
he  opened  his  eyes.  The  sun  had  come 
out,  and  was  falling  warm  and  full  upon 
the  mass  of  young  green  which  covered 
the  hillside.  This  erect  standing  figure 
w^as  for  a  moment  or  two  very  indistinct 
against  the  dazzling  light.  Then  Lafe 
made    out   that   this   was    Foldeen. 

Almost  in  the  same  glance  he  saw  that 
he  was  sitting  among  the  heap  of  knap- 
sacks and  battle-field  debris  in  the  corner 
of  the  breastwork.  Close  beside  him  —  so 
near  that  he  felt  he  must  have  been  lying 
upon  him  when  he  recovered  consciousness 
—  sprawled  the  burly  figure  of  the  bounty- 
jumper,  face  downward,  and  quite  still. 

Lafe  was  so  contented  with  the  spectacle 
on  which  his  eyes  rested  that  it  did  not  occur 
to  him  to  ask  what  had  happened. 


Red  Pete  m  Captivity.  201 

It  was  pleasanter  to  look  at  Foldeen's 
honest  face,  beaming  satisfaction  back  into 
the  boy's  slow  and  inquiring  regard.  The 
German  said  nothing,  but  just  smiled  at 
Lafe. 

As  the  boy's  memory  cleared  itself,  the 
fact  that  Foldeen  had  had  no  breakfast,  and 
that  he  had  left  him  in  his  covert  on  the 
hillside  with  very  little  compunction,  rose 
above  everything  else. 

Lafe  pointed  to  the  knapsacks,  and  at- 
tempted to  speak.  His  throat  and  windpipe, 
the  roots  of  his  tongue  and  everything  else 
involved  in  vocal  sounds,  seemed  at  the 
effort  to  shrivel  up  in  pain.  At  first  he 
thought  he  could  not  manage  to  utter  a  syl- 
lable. Then,  at  the  cost  of  some  suffering, 
he  forced  out  the  words,  "  Bread  —  there." 
They  sounded  quite  strange  in  his  ears. 

Foldeen  nodded  his  head,  still  with  the 
jubilant  grin  on  his  round,  kindly  face. 
"  Ya  vole,"  he  said,  in  a  matter-of-fact  way. 
"  But  first  I  fix  me  up  dis  fellow  dight." 

He  sorted  out  of  the  pile  of  stolen  property 


202  A  Day  in  the    Wilderness. 

two  officers'  sashes  of  knitted  crimson  silk, 
and  kneeling  down  beside  the  outstretched 
form  of  the  bounty-jumper,  proceeded  calmly 
to  bind  his  legs  together  at  the  ankles  with 
one  of  them. 

Then,  with  some  roughness,  he  dragged 
the  prostrate  man's  arms  together  till  their 
wrists  met  on  the  small  of  his  back,  and 
there  tied  them  securely. 

"  He  ain't  dead,  then  ?  "  commented  Lafe, 
his  throat  feelinsf  easier. 

"  Veil,  maybe  he  is,"  said  Foldeen.  "  I 
hit  him  shtraight  by  the  top  of  his  head  mit 
dot  gun-barrel,  und  he  vent  down  like  if  he 
vas  a  tousand  bricks.  But  it  makes  nod- 
ding. Ven  he  is  dead,  den  he  is  good  tied 
up.  Ven  he  is  alife,  den  he  is  much  better 
tied  up.  Now  ve  eat  us  our  breakfast  in 
kviet.    Bread,  you  say  ?    Show  me  dot  bread." 

Foldeen  needed  no  showing,  but  was  on  the 
instant  wolfing  huge  mouthfuls  from  the  half- 
loaf  which  the  nearest  haversack  furnished. 
Lafe  leaned  back  and  watched  him,  his  mind 
filled  with  formless  emotions  of  thanksgiving. 


Red  Pete  in  Captivity.  203 

In  such  intervals  as  he  could  spare  from 
the  bread,  Foldeen  lightly  told  what  had 
happened.  From  his  perch  up  on  the  hill- 
side he  had  seen  everything,  and  though 
beyond  earshot,  had  been  able  to  follow 
pretty  well  what  was  going  on. 

When  the  rascal  drew  the  pistol,  Foldeen 
slipped  out  from  his  hiding-place,  and  began 
letting  himself  noiselessly  down  the  hill. 
He  had  entered  the  breastwork  just  at  the 
critical  moment,  and  had  dealt  Lafe's  assail- 
ant a  crushing  blow  on  the  skull  with  a 
gun  he  picked  up.  That  was  all.  It  was 
very  simple. 

"  And  mighty  lucky  for  me,  too  !  "  was  the 
boy's  heartfelt  comment.  "  Foldeen,  do  you 
know  what  this  fellow  here's  been  doine?" 

"  I  haf  some  brains  on  my  head.  I  haf 
seen  his  business.     He  is  a  dief." 

"  He  got  these  things  together  here,"  said 
Lafe,  "  and  he  told  me  there  was  a  lot  more 
over  on  the  other  side  of  the  creek.  He 
was  going  to  make  me  help  him  bring  them 
here.     That  was  what  he  had  the  pistol  out 


204  A  Day  in  the   Wilderness. 

for.  But  what  beats  me  is,  what  did  he 
expect  to  do  with  them  ?  A  man  can't  get 
out  of  the  Hues  with  a  load  of  traps  hke 
this,  even  if  he  could  carry    em." 

For  answer  Foldeen  rose,  and  turned  the 
sprawling,  inert  form  of  his  captive  over  on 
its  back.  The  pallor  of  the  thief's  face,  con- 
trasted with  the  coarse,  sandy  hair  and  stub- 
ble of  beard,  made  it  seem  more  repellent 
than  ever. 

The  German  bent  over  to  examine  this 
countenance  more  carefully. 

"  By  jiminy  priest !  I  bet  me  anydings  I 
know  dot  man ! "  he  exclaimed,  staring 
downward  intently.  "  Vake  up  dere,  you  !  " 
he  called  out,  pushing  the  recumbent  figure 
with  his  foot.  "  I  know  you.  Red  Pete ! 
Dot's  no  use,  your  making  out  you  vas 
asleep !  Vake  up,  kvick  now ! "  and  he 
stirred  him  with  his  boot  again. 

"  I  bet  he's  dead,"  said  Lafe. 

No !  The  man  half  opened  his  eyes  and 
moved  his  head  restlessly.  The  color  came 
back    into   his   face,   the    muscles  of   which 


Red  Pete  i7i  Captivity.  205 

were  drawn  now  into  an  angry  scowl  by 
pain.  He  fell  back  helpless  after  an  instinc- 
tive effort  to  lift  himself  to  a  sitting  posture. 
Then,  shifting  his  head,  he  discovered  the 
two  friends,  and  fixed  upon  them  a  stolid, 
half-stupefied  stare. 

"  How  you  like  him,  dot  Red  Pete,  eh  ?  " 
Foldeen  burst  forth,  with  exultation,  never 
taking  his  jubilant  glance  from  the  face  of 
the  wretch  on  the  ground.  "  Dot's  a  beauty, 
ain'd  it  1  Dot's  a  first-glass  Christmas  bres- 
ent,  eh,  to  find  in  your  shtocking !  Or  no, 
he  is  too  big.  Ve  hang  him  on  a  dree,  eh } 
A  nize  Ghristmas-dree,  all  by  ourselves,  eh } 
O  Red  Pete,  you  vas  git  the  best  place  by 
dot  dree,  right  in  front,  on  the  biggest 
branch !  " 

The  man  on  the  ground  had  been  staring 
upward  at  the  speaker  in  a  puzzled  fashion. 
He  had  slowly  taken  in  the  situation  that  he 
was  disabled,  bound  hand  and  foot,  and  at 
the  German's  mercy.  At  last  he  seemed  to 
recall  who  it  was  who  was  talking  to  him. 

"  I  never  done  you  no  harm  !  "  he  growled. 


2o6  A  Day  in  the   Wilderness. 

"  So-o !  "  ejaculated  Foldeen,  with  loud 
sarcasm.  "  Dot  vas  no  harm,  eh,  dot  vas 
only  some  little  fun,  eh,  to  make  me  on  fire 
und  burn  me  up  mit  the  rest  in  dot  shteam- 
boat  ?  Just  some  funny  joke,  eh  ?  Veil,  den, 
now  I  will  haf  me  my  funny  liddle  jokes 
mit  you." 

Speaking  with  such  swift  volubility  that 
Lafe  followed  with  difficulty  the  thread  of 
his  narrative,  Foldeen  unfolded  a  curious 
tale.  Before  the  war  he  had  drifted  about 
in  the  South  a  good  deal,  playing  in 
orchestras  in  New  Orleans  some  of  the 
time,  and  then  for  whole  seasons  travelling 
up  and  down  the  Mississippi  in  the  bands 
of  the  old  passenger  steamers. 

This  man,  Red  Pete,  was  a  well-known 
character  on  the  river,  too  well  known  all 
the  way  from  Cairo-  to  the  last  levee. 
Sometimes  he  was  in  charge  of  a  squad 
of  slaves,  sometimes  travelling  on  his  own 
account  as  a  gambler,  slave-buyer,  or  even 
for  a  trip  as  minor  boat  officer  —  but 
always  an  evil-minded  scoundrel. 


Red  Pete  in  Captivity.  207 

One  night,  when  they  were  lying  at  the 
wharf  under  the  bluff  at  Natchez,  the 
cabins  of  the  steamer  had  been  robbed, 
and  fire  set  to  the  boat  in  several  places. 
Those  on  board  barely  escaped  with  their 
lives,  and  when  they  found  that  Red  Pete 
was  missing,  every  one  knew  well  enough 
that  he  was  the  thief  and  would-be  mur- 
derer. 

Foldeen  believed  there  had  been  some 
search  for  him,  but  those  were  rou^h 
times,  and  he  was  never  tracked  down. 
Then  the  war  came,  and  Foldeen  perforce 
•went  into  the  band  of  an  Arkansas  regi- 
ment—  until  the  opportunity  of  making 
his  escape  to  the   Union  lines  occurred. 

During  that  period  of  reluctant  service 
with  the  band  which  played  "  Dixie "  and 
"  The  Bonnie  Blue  Flag,"  he  had  more 
than  once  heard  of  Red  Pete  as  a  sort  of 
unattached  guerilla,  who,  like  many  other 
river  ruffians,  played  for  his  own  hand 
between  the  lines. 

"  Und  now  it  looks  like  dot  game  of  his 


2o8  A  Day  in  the   Wilderness. 

vas  pretty  near  blayed  out,  eh  ?  "  Foldeen 
concluded  with  a  chuckle. 

Lafe  gazed  down  with  loathing  upon 
this  burly  and  powerful  desperado,  lying  in 
such  utter  helplessness.  He  told  Foldeen 
in  turn  how  he  had  seen  this  very  man 
in  the  Fifth  Corps  "  quod "  only  last  win- 
ter, condemned  to  death. 

"  So-o ! "  exclaimed  the  German.  "I 
remember  dot.  All  five  deserters  und 
bounty-chumpers  dug  deir  vay  out,  und 
gilled  a  sentinel,  und  skipped  in  the  night. 
So-o !  Ve  don't  have  us  dot  private 
Ghristmas-dree,  after  all.  Ve  make  Red 
Pete  a  bresent  to  Cheneral  Boyce,  instead." 

"  Yes,  but  where  shall  we  find  General 
Boyce .?  "  Lafe  put  in. 

Moved  by  a  common  impulse,  the  two 
turned  their  backs  on  their  prisoner,  and 
went  outside  the  earthwork. 

The  sky  was  overcast  with  shifting 
clouds  again,  and  gave  no  hint  as  to  the 
points  of  compass.  The  little  valley, 
strewn    with    motionless,    blue-clad    figures, 


Red  Pete  in  Captivity.  209 

lay  wrapped  in  such  silence  that  they 
could  hear  the  murmur  of  the  rivulet 
beyond.  On  both  sides  the  hills  rose 
steeply,  covered  with  thick,  tangled 
verdure. 

Behind  and  before  them  the  valley  lost 
itself  a  hundred  yards  away  in  dense 
thickets.  A  sharp  wind  had  risen,  under 
which  the  tree-tops  moaned.  Above  the 
noises  of  the  gathering  gale,  faint  sounds 
of  distant  firing  could  be  heard. 

"  We'd  better  stay  where  we  are,"  the 
boy  suggested.  "  There's  been  rough-and- 
tumble  fighting  all  around  here,  and  there's 
no  way  of  figuring  out  where  our  people 
are.  I  guess  they  don't  know  themselves. 
If  we  go  hunting  round,  we're  as  likely  as 
not  to  walk  into  a  hornets'  nest.  I  tell 
you  what  we'll  do.  If  we  can  find  a  piece 
of  white  cloth,  we'll  put  it  up  on  a  pole 
out  here,  and  we'll  bury  these  men  of  ours. 
Nobody'll  touch  us,  if  they  come  along  and 
find  us  doing  that.  Besides,  it's  the  right 
thing  to  do." 


2IO  A  Day  iji  the   Wilderness. 

They  turned  back  into  the  breastwork, 
and  Lafe,  rummaging  among  the  knap- 
sacks, speedily  found  a  roll  of  bandage- 
linen  which  would  serve  his  purpose.  He 
got  out  more  bread  as  well,  and  found  a 
scrap  of  fried  bacon.  The  two  ate  stand- 
ing; now  that  they  had  a  plan,  they  were 
all  eagerness  to  put  it  into  operation. 

Red  Pete  had  closed  his  eyes  again,  and 
was  lying  perfectly  still.  The  excitement 
of  his  capture  having  died  away,  they  now 
scarcely  gave  him  a  glance. 

"  I  wonder  what  time  it's  got  to  be," 
Lafe  remarked,  as  they  were  finishing  the 
last  mouthful.  "Oh,  I  forgot  —  he's  got  a 
gold  watch  in  his  pocket,  and  I  think  it's 
going." 

Foldeen  knelt,  and  feeling  about  for  it, 
drew  the  watch  from  Red  Pete's  trousers 
pocket.  "  By  jiminy  priest !  it's  near  four 
o'clock!"  he  exclaimed.  Then  rising,  he 
looked  more  attentively  at  the  watch,  turn- 
ing it  over  in  his  hand  admiringly,  and  pry- 
ing open  the  back  of  the  case  with  his  nail. 


Red  Pete  in  Captivity,  211 

There  seemed  to  be  an  inscription  on 
the  inside  of  the  cover,  and  Foldeen  held 
the  watch  sidewise  to  decipher  this  more 
readily,  while  Lafe  peered  over  his  shoulder 
to  look. 

"  It's  in  writing,"  he  said ;  "  let  me  take 
it.     I  can  make  it  out  easier,  perhaps." 

The  legend  inside  the  gold  case  was 
delicately  engraved  in  small  running  script. 
Lafe,  reading  with  increasing  surprise,  dis- 
covered it  to  be  this:  — 

Pi-esented  to 

Lieut.  Lyman  Hornbeck, 

Jamcary  22,  1864, 

by  his  friends  and  admirers 

Of  St.  Mark's  Church, 

Cleveland. 

"  Say,  Foldeen,"  Lafe  burst  forth,  "  I  bet 
that's  a  relation  of  mine.  I've  got  an 
uncle  —  " 

"  So  everybody  has  got  some  ungles," 
put  in  the  musician. 

"  No,  but  look  here,"  the  boy  insisted. 
"  That  says  'Lyman   Hornbeck.'     Well,  my 


212  A  Day  in  the  Wilderness. 

father's  brother  was  Lyman  Hornbeck. 
I've  heard  talk  about  my  Uncle  Lyme  ever 
since  I  could  remember.  He  left  home 
years  ago,  before  I  was  born.  They  al- 
ways said  he  was  out  West,  somewhere. 
I  bet  it's  the  same  man.  At  any  rate,  I'm 
going  to  take  a  look  around.  You  fix  up 
the  pole  and  the  white  flag  outside  here, 
and  bring  out  the  shovels.  I'll  be  back 
again  and  help." 

Lafe's  eyes  sparkled  with  a  new  excite- 
ment as  he  made  his  way  across  the  past- 
ure to  the  bank  of  the  creek,  noting  as 
he  strode  along  that  all  the  lifeless  forms 
on  the  grass  wore  the  uniforms  of  privates. 

He  walked  along  the  shelving  edge  of 
this  bank  from  one  end  of  the  clearing  to 
the  other,  to  make  sure  that  the  winding 
bed  of  the  stream  below  did  not  hold  what 
he  sought  for.  There  was  no  sign,  any- 
where in  the  open,  of  an  officer. 

He  remembered  now  that  Red  Pete  had 
spoken  of  the  other  side  of  the  creek, 
which    lay  so    much    lower   than    the    bank 


Red  Pete  m  Captivity.  213 

on  which  he  stood  that  it  could  not  have 
been  raked  by  the  fire  from  the  breast- 
work. It  was  swampy  ground,  covered 
heavily  with  high,  bushing  willows  and 
rank  growths  of  tall  marsh  grass.  No  path 
leading  into  it  was  discernible,  perhaps  be- 
cause the  wind  blew  the  reeds  and  flags 
so  stiffly  sidewise. 

With  a  running  jump  Lafe  cleared  the 
bed  of  the  stream,  and  pushed  his  way 
into  the  morass.  It  was  not  so  wet  under- 
foot as  he  had  expected,  but  the  tangle 
of  vines  and  undergrowth  made  his  prog- 
ress slow  and  troublesome.  It  was  easy 
enough  to  see  that  no  portion  of  the  bri- 
gade had  passed  this  way ;  there  were  no 
indications  that  wild  nature  here  had  ever 
been  disturbed.  The  boy  pressed  on  until, 
finding  the  swamp-jungle  getting  worse  with 
every  yard,  and  the  shadows  deepening  about 
him,  it  was  clearly  useless  to  go  farther. 

Turning,  he  fancied  he  knew  from  which 
direction  he  had  advanced  into  this  maze. 
There  was  no  use  in   merely  retracing   his 


214  -^  D^y  ^^^  i^^^   Wilderness. 

steps.  He  settled  his  bearings  as  well  as 
might  be,  and  struck  off  to  the  left,  to  work 
his  way  diagonally  out  to  the  clearing. 

When  he  had  floundered  on  over  what 
seemed  twice  the  distance  of  his  first  direct 
line,  and  halted,  hot,  tired,  and  out  of  breath, 
he  could  detect  no  open  space  ahead.  The 
wind  was  blowing  hard  from  up  above,  and 
the  noise  of  its  impact  upon  the  wilderness 
was  in  itself  enough  to  confuse  the  senses. 
It  was  undoubtedly  growing  dark. 

"  Hello  —  Hornbeck !  "  Lafe  shouted. 

The  wind  seized  the  shrill  cry  and  scat- 
tered it  into  fragmentary  echoes.  It  was 
worse  than  useless  to  call  out.  He  must 
push  doggedly  on.  Lafe  turned  a  little  to 
the  right,  and  crushed  his  way  forward 
through  the  brush  and  bracken,  with  a 
step  to  which  dawning  fears  of  being  lost 
lent  added  vigor. 

He  was  traversing  slightly  higher  ground 
now.  The  willows  and  marsh  grass  had 
given  place  to  a  more  orderly  second 
growth   of    firs,    with    dry   moss    underfoot, 


Red  Pete  in  Captivity.  215 

and  open  spaces  overhead.  In  one  of  these 
breathing-places  of  the  thicket,  he  came 
suddenly  upon  the  blue-clad  figure  of  a 
man  sitting  propped  up  against  a  stump, 
his  head  hanging  on  his  breast. 

He  was  young  and  fair-haired,  and  Lafe's 
glance  took  in  the  glint  of  gilt  straps  on 
his  shoulders  as  he  hurried  toward  him. 
Almost  in  the  same  instant  the  boy,  kneel- 
ing at  his  side,  saw  that  this  was  the 
young  Ohio  officer  he  had  spoken  with  at 
sunrise,  and  that  he  was  alive. 

As  he  sought  to  waken  the  wounded 
man,  and  make  out  how  badly  he  had  been 
hurt,  it  grew  suddenly,  strangely  dark. 
Looking  upward,  Lafe  saw  above  the  tree- 
tops  nearest  him,  piling  skyward  on  the 
wind,  a  great  writhing  wall  of  black  smoke. 

It  mounted  in  huge,  waving  coils  as  he 
looked,  and  came  nearer,  bending  forward 
in  a  sinister  arch  across  the  heavens.  His 
startled  ears  dimly  heard  a  sullen,  roaring 
sound,  newly  engrafted  upon  the  whistling 
of  the  wind. 

The  woods  were  on  fire ! 


CHAPTER   V. 

LAFE     RESCUES     AN     OFFICER,     AND     FINDS     HIS 
COUSIN. 

T  AFE  had  seen  forest  fires  near  Juno 
Mills,  and  there  was  nothing  in  his 
recollection  of  them  to  suggest  great  dan- 
ger in  this  one.  He  was  more  interested 
for  the  moment  in  the  young  Ohio  officer 
propped  against  the  stump.  This  lieuten- 
ant was  barefooted.  A  thief  had  evidently 
taken  also  his  sash,  sword,  and  belt. 

He  was  probably  one  of  Red  Pete's  vic- 
tims. The  others  could  not  be  far  away, 
among  them  Lafe's  problematical  kinsman 
with  the  presentation  watch. 

But    finding    a    possible    uncle    was    just 

now  of  less  importance  than  finding  a  safe 

way  out  of  the   thicket.     The  smoke  grew 

visibly  thicker,  and    Lafe   could   detect,  off 

216 


Lafe  rescues  an  Officer.  217 

to  the  left,  the  distinct  crackling  noise  of 
flames.  He  dropped  on  one  knee  again, 
and  patted  the  officer's  shoulder  with  de- 
cision. 

The  young  man  moved  his  head  rest- 
lessly, then  opened  his  eyes  and  stared 
dully  at  Lafe. 

"  Which  way  is  the  creek  ?  "  the  drum- 
mer-boy shouted. 

The  lieutenant,  as  if  dazed,  looked  half 
wonderingly  into  the  boy's  face.  Then 
he  blinked,  shook  himself,  and  made  a 
move  to  sit  upright.  He  sank  back  with 
his  mouth  drawn  awry  by  the  severity  of 
his  pain,  and  forced  the  semblance  of  a 
laugh  upon  these  pale  lips. 

"  I  thought  at  first  I  was  home,  and  you 
were  my  brother,"  he  said. 

"  How  bad  are  you  hurt  ?  Can  you 
walk  }  "  Lafe  demanded.  "  We've  got  to 
get  out  of  this.  The  woods  are  on  fire, 
and  the  wind  is  blowing  it  dead  this  way. 
Where  are  you  hit } " 

"  Minie  ball    here  —  between    the   shoul- 


2i8  A  Day  in  the   Wilderness. 

der  and  the  lung,  I  hope,"  replied  the 
other,  indicating  his  left  side.  "  It's  stif- 
fened and  I  can't  lift  myself.  Help  me 
on  my  feet,  and  I  guess  I  can  walk 
away." 

Lafe  put  an  arm  under  him  and  gave 
him  his  hand.  The  lieutenant,  with  a 
groan,  set  his  teeth  and  scrambled  up  on 
his  feet.  He  looked  about  him  for  an 
instant,  and  then  hastily  seated  himself  on 
the  stump. 

"  I'm  dizzy  for  the  minute,"  he  murmured. 
"  I  must  have  lost  so  much  blood.  It's 
afternoon,  isn't  it .?  " 

"  Past  five.  You'd  better  brace  up  now, 
and  try  to  come  on.     Which  way  is  it }  " 

The  officer  looked  vaguely  around.  "  I 
hardly  know,"  he  confessed.  "  I  can  just 
remember  dragging  myself  off  into  the 
swamp.  I  thought  I  should  find  some 
water,  and  I  guess  my  strength  gave  out 
about  here.  Somebody  came  along  and 
pulled  off  my  boots  and  stockings,  and 
went    through    my  pockets,  but   I  was    too 


Lafe  rescues  an  Officer.  219 

near  dead  to  resist,  and  I  kept  my  eyes 
shut." 

"  Well,  you  want  to  keep  'em  open  now. 
This  must  be  the  way  out,  according  to 
the  wind.  That's  it ;  get  your  arm  over  my 
shoulder,  and  we'll  make  a  break." 

They  walked  thus  for  a  dozen  steps  or 
so,  the  officer  leaning  a  little  on  Lafe's 
right  shoulder.  Then  the  wounded  man 
stopped. 

"  I'd  rather  you  went  ahead,"  he  called 
into  the  boy's  ear.  "  The  branches  knock 
against  my  game  side,  this  way.  I'll  keep 
behind  you  ;  "  and  so  they  went  on  again, 
Lafe  pushing  the  saplings  and  boughs 
aside  for  the  other. 

The  smoke  had  become  almost  blinding 
now,  as  it  sifted  through  the  motionless 
air  of  the  thicket.  The  noises  had  risen 
now  into  a  pandemonium  of  uproar  —  on 
the  left  the  furious  bellowing  of  the  tem- 
pest and  the  flames,  to  the  right  a  series 
of  outbursts  that  shook  the  earth  like  mine 
explosions.      It   sometimes   seemed  to  Lafe 


2  20  A  Day  in  the   Wilderness. 

as  if  he  distinguished  the  cheers  and 
vague  cries  of  men,  off  on  the  other  side 
—  and  then  back  would  come  the  chaotic 
din. 

Awed  and  deafened,  the  two  pushed 
doggedly  on,  Lafe  stealing  glances  over 
his  shoulder,  to  see  if  the  officer  was  fol- 
lowing. He  came,  holding  to  the  branches 
with  his  right  hand  for  support,  and  striv- 
ing to  pick  soft  places  for  his  bare  feet 
among  the  stones  and  prickly  ground 
vines. 

It  had  suddenly  grown  very  hot.  The 
heat  began  to  sting  Lafe's  forehead  and 
eyes.  They  were  advancing  into  the  tem- 
perature of  a  veritable  furnace.  The  crack- 
ling noises  to  the  left  had  swollen  all  at 
once    to    an    angry    tumult  close    at    hand. 

Looking  up  with  smarting  eyes  through 
the  pungent  smoke,  the  boy  beheld  scat- 
tered flashes  of  flame  dotting  the  murky 
shadows  of  the  forest  beyond,  and  even  as 
he  looked  these  tongues  of  fire  ran  for- 
ward under    the  wind    with    darting    swift- 


Lafe  rescues  mi  Officer.  221 

ness.  An  imperative  outcry  behind  Lafe 
called  a  halt.  He  turned  as  his  companion 
reeled,  clutched  wildly  at  an  ash  sapling, 
and  fell  against  it,  his  head  hanging  help- 
lessly forward  on  his  breast. 

"  It's  no  use,"  he  gasped,  as  the  boy 
strode  back.  "  I'm  choking,  and  I'm 
played  out.     I  can't  go  another  step." 

He  falteringly  lifted  one  of  his  torn 
and  bleeding  feet,  and  put  it  down  again. 
His  arm  slipped  from  around  the  sapling, 
and  he  would  have  fallen  if  Lafe  had  not 
caught  him. 

"  Why  don't  you  be  a  man  ! "  the  boy 
screamed  shrilly  through  the  tumult. 

A  sort  of  angry  desperation  seized  upon 
Lafe.  He  would  drag  this  Ohio  tender- 
foot out  of  the  fire  in  spite  of  himself. 
With  rough  energy  he  fitted  his  shoulder 
under  the  ofKicer's  armpit,  and  drew  his 
right  arm  forward  in  the  determined  clutch 
of  both  his  hands. 

"  Come  on  now,  the  best  way  you  can. 
Never    mind    your    feet    or    your   shoulder 


2  22  A  Day  in  the   Wilderness. 

either ! "  he  yelled,  and  then,  stiffening 
his  back  under  the  burden,  he  staggered 
forward. 

He  could  never  afterward  recall  any- 
thing definitely  of  how  he  did  it,  or  how 
long  it  took.  But  through  the  shrivelling 
heat,  through  the  murderous  swoop  of  fire 
and  smoke,  somehow  he  came.  All  at 
once  there  was  the  play  of  cooler  air  upon 
his  face.  Instead  of  the  choking  smoke 
and  darkness  he  was  wrapped  about  by  a 
clean  wind.  It  had  grown  suddenly  day- 
light again. 

Bent  almost  double  under  his  burden, 
he  strove  in  vain  to  fill  his  lungs  with  this 
fresh  air.  It  was  dimly  in  his  mind  to 
straighten  himself,  and  breathe  in  all  he 
could  hold.  But  the  load  on  his  back 
seemed  to  be  pressing  him  further  down, 
and  whirling  him  round  as  well. 

Then  he  was  lying  face  downward,  on 
dry,  soft  earth  with  the  sharp  edges  of 
stiff  marsh  grass  in  his  hair.  Something 
heavy   lay   across    him.     He    rolled    himself 


Lafe  rescues  an  Officer.  223 

free  from  the  encumbrance,  and  stretched 
himself  out  luxuriously  on  his  back.  The 
wind  soughed  pleasantly  through  the  reeds 
about  his  head. 

He  went  to  sleep,  dreaming  placidly  as 
he  dropped  off  that  ordered  swarms  of 
men  were  passing  through  the  tall  grass 
close  beside  him,  firing  volleys  and  cheer- 
ing as  they  fired. 

Four  red  points  of  light,  at  regular  dis- 
tances apart,  and  shining  faintly  against  a 
broad  canopy  of  blackness,  was  what  Lafe, 
still  lying  on  his  back,  beheld  when  he 
woke.  He  looked  at  them  lazily  for  what 
seemed  a  long  time,  and  did  not  care  in 
the  least  what  they  signified.  Then,  quite 
without  any  effort,  he  knew  that  they  were 
lanterns  hung  on  a  rope. 

There  were  sinuous  lines  of  motion  in 
the  darkness  above  the  lanterns,  and  these 
revealed  themselves  to  him  as  the  sides  of 
canvas-strips  stirring  in  the  wind.  This, 
too,  did  not  seem  important,  and  he  indo- 
lently closed  his  eyes  again. 


2  24  ^   Z^<2y  in  the   Wilderness. 

A  sharp  cry,  ringing  abruptly  out  close 
at  hand,  awoke  him  more  thoroughly.  He 
even  lifted  his  head  a  little,  and  saw  many 
more  lights  —  lanterns,  kerosene  lamps,  and 
tallow-dips  stuck  in  bottles.  They  stretched 
out  irregularly  in  all  directions,  illumining 
little  patches  of  space,  which  seemed  all 
the  smaller  by  comparison  with  the  vast 
blocks  of   deep  shadows  surrounding  them. 

The  radiance  of  many  of  these  lights 
centred  upon  a  broad  table,  about  which 
several  men  were  standing  in  their  shirt- 
sleeves, and  with  aprons  like  butchers. 
There  seemed  to  be  another  man  lying 
on  this  table,  and  one  of  his  legs  was  bared 
to  the  thigh.  Some  of  these  shadowy  fig- 
ures moved,  and  another  cry  arose.  Lafe 
shut  his  eyes,  and  turned  away  from  the 
spectacle. 

There  was  now  a  rustle  of  straw  under 
him,  and  he  noted  that  his  head  was  rest- 
ing on  a  canvas  pillow  filled  with  straw. 
A  strong  smell,  as  of  arnica,  attracted  his 
attention.  Now  he  understood  that  he 
was  in  a  hospital  tent. 


Lafe  rescues  an  Officer.  225 

He  wondered  where  he  himself  had 
been  hurt.  Except  for  a  general,  dull 
aching  of  the  muscles,  he  was  conscious 
of  no  special  pain.  He  tried  opening  and 
closing  his  fingers,  and  moving  his  toes. 

Each  member  seemed  in  working  order. 
He  passed  his  hands  along  his  sides,  and 
still  found  nothing  amiss.  But  his  head 
certainly  did  ache. 

Vague  recollection  of  the  events  of  the 
day  began  to  stir  in  his  memory,  but  not 
at  all  in  their  right  order.  It  seemed  as 
if  it  was  Foldeen  Schell  whom  he  had  car- 
ried out  of  the  burning  woods,  and  nearer 
still  in  point  of  time  seemed  to  be  Red 
Pete's  stifling  grip  upon  his  neck.  Then, 
somehow,  his  thoughts  drifted  to  the  watch 
and  its  inscription. 

He  drowsily  tried  to  think  what  this 
Lyman  Hornbeck  must  be  like  —  a  gray- 
bearded  old  man  and  a  church-member, 
and  yet  only  a  lieutenant.  So  his  vagrant 
fancy  drifted  about  on  the  border-land  of 
sleep. 


226  A  Day  in  the    Wilderness. 

Suddenly  there  were  voices  close  about 
him.  Half  opening  his  eyes,  Lafe  blinked 
at  three  or  four  torches  which  some  sol- 
diers were  holding  up  at  the  foot  of  his 
bed.  A  half-dozen  officers  were  there  as 
well,  and  the  foremost  one  was  General 
Boyce. 

The  light  hurt  Lafe's  eyes,  and  he  closed 
them.  The  general's  cheery  voice  remained 
in  his  ears,  though,  and  conveyed  so  true  a 
notion  of  the  man  that  Lafe  seemed  to 
continue  to  behold  him,  the  red  torchlight 
heightening  the  glow  of  health  on  his 
round  cheeks  and  shining  in  his  brave, 
kindly  eyes. 

"  Oh,  you'll  be  up  and  about  in  a  day 
or  two,"  the  general  was  saying,  in  a  hearty, 
encouraging  way.  "  Won't  he,  surgeon- 
major.?  " 

"  Well,  inside  a  week,"  answered  another 
voice.  "  The  wound  in  itself  wasn't  much. 
It's  the  loss  of  blood   that's  worst." 

"  Lieutenant,"  the  general  went  on,  "  if  I 
don't  call  you  captain  when   you  get  back 


Lafe  rescues  an  Officer.  227 

from  your  furlough,  it  won't  be  my  fault. 
You've  been  mentioned  in  the  despatches. 
Your  company's  tussle  with  the  breastwork 
under  the  hill  was  as  plucky  a  thing  as 
has  been  done  to-day.  Well,  good  luck  to 
you! 

There  was  a  rattle  of  spurs  and  swords, 
as  if  the  group  were  moving,  and  then  Lafe 
was  conscious  that  the  young  Ohio  officer 
spoke,  as  if  from   the  very  next  bed. 

"  O  general,"  he  called  out,  "  I'll  save 
my  own  thanks  for  some  other  time !  But 
I  want  you  to  take  notice  of  this  boy  here. 
Hes  one  who  ought  to  be  mentioned  in 
despatches.  I'd  have  been  roasted  alive  if 
it  hadn't  been  for  him.  He  came  into  the 
woods  and  found  me,  and  routed  me  up, 
and  made  me  walk,  and  when  I  gave  out 
he  actually  carried  me  right  through  the 
blaze.  Talk  about  charging  the  breast- 
work!     What   he    did    was    worth  .fifty   of 

it. 

Lafe  felt  through  his  closed  eyelids  that 
the  torches  were  being  held  so  as  to  cover 


228  A  Day  in  the   Wilderness. 

him  with  their  light.  Oddly  enough,  he 
seemed  without  desire  to  look. 

"  I  won't  forget,"  said  the  general.  "  How 
badly  off  is  he.?  " 

"  He  was  brought  in  with  the  lieutenant 
here,"  returned  the  surgeon-major.  "  I  didn't 
see  him  myself.     You  were  here,  nurse  ?  " 

A  woman's  voice  took  up  the  thread : 
"  Poor  little  fellow,  he  doesn't  seem  to 
have  been  shot,  but  his  head  was  laid  open 
to  the  bone  somehow.  Doctor  Alvord 
thought  it  must  have  been  a  horse's  hoof." 

"  We  were  both  on  the  ground  in  the 
way  when  the  big  charge  down  the  run 
was  made,"  explained  the  lieutenant.  "  He 
must  have  got  trampled  on.  I  think  he's 
a  drummer  in  the  brigade  band.  I  noticed 
him  when  we  went  into  line  this  morning." 

"  I  wonder  if  it  can  be  our  Juno  Mills 
boy,"  broke  in  the  general.  Lafe  felt  that 
the  great  man  was  bending  over  close  to 
him.  "  Some  Dutchman  in  the  band  was 
telling  a  tremendous  yarn  about  a  young- 
ster who  went  down  alone  into  the  breast- 


Lafe  rescues  an  Officer.  229 

work  after  it  was  deserted,  and  had  a  fight, 
single-handed,  with  a  baggage-thief,  and 
played  the  deuce  generally.  Does  any- 
body know  whether  he's  the  same  one  ? " 

Lafe  could  never  understand  afterward 
what  ailed  him  to  behave  so,  but  at  this 
he  kept  his  breathing  down  to  its  gentlest 
possible  form.  The  general  and  his  attend- 
ants moved  off  down  the  aisles,  halting 
with  the  torches  at  other  bedsides  to  give 
cheer.  Their  going  gave  Lafe  leisure  for 
the   thought  which   interested  him   most. 

The  news  that  his  head  had  been  laid 
open  to  the  bone  had  fascinated  him.  He 
put  up  a  hand  now  and  felt  of  his  skull. 
It  was  covered  all  over  with  interlaced  strips 
of  stiff  plaster  encased  in  a  soft  linen  band- 
age drawn  tight. 

"  Are  you  feeling  all  right  ?  " 

It  was  the  voice  of  the  lieutenant.  Lafe, 
proud  of  his  plasters,  opened  his  eyes  and 
made  out  the  young  officer,  propped  up 
with  a  couple  of  straw  pillows  on  the  bed 
next  his. 


230  A  Day  in  the   Wilderness. 

"  My  head  aches  a  Httle,  that's  all,"  said 
Lafe.  "  Say,  we  had  a  squeak  for  it,  didn't 
we?" 

"  I  sha'n't  forget  it  —  nor  you,"  responded 
the  other. 

"  Cleveland's  in  Ohio,  ain't  it  ?  "  the  boy 
asked,  all  at  once  pursuing  a  subject  which 
had  kept  dodging  in  and  out  of  his  mind. 
"  Perhaps  you  know  an  old  man  in  one  of 
the  Ohio  regiments  —  he  must  be  getting 
along  toward  sixty  —  he's  a  lieutenant,  and 
his  name's  Lyman  Hornbeck.  I  was  look- 
ing for  him  this  afternoon  when  —  when  I 
lighted   on  you." 

.  The  young  ofHcer,  quite  heedless  of  his 
bandages,  sat  bolt  upright  and  stared  at 
Lafe  as  if  too  much  amazed  for  words. 

"  I  don't  know  what  you'ne  driving  at," 
he  said  at  last.  "  My  name  is  Lyman 
Hornbeck,  and  I'm  a  Cleveland  man  and 
a  lieutenant  —  but  I'm  a  long  way  off  from 
sixty.  You  can't  mean  my  father?  He's 
been  dead  two  years.  His  name  was 
Lyman.     Why,    hold    on !      General    Boyce 


Lafe  rescues  an  Officer.  233 

said  something  about  Juno  Mills  —  my 
father  came  from  near  there  —  you  don't 
mean  to  say  you're  a  Hornbeck  ? " 

An  irresistible  impulse  moved  Lafe  to 
crawl  out  of  his  bed  and  totter  across  to 
the  other's  pallet.  He  sat  down  on  the 
edge  of  it,  and  leaned  his  head  back  on 
the  officer's  two  pillows. 

"  Say,  I'm  Steve  Hornbeck's  son,"  he 
said,  "  and  your  father  was  my  Uncle 
Lyme.  Do  you  know,  I  kind  of  felt  like 
takin'  a  shine  to  you  when  you  spoke  to 
me  early  this  morning." 

The  officer  had  put  his  arm  affection- 
ately round  the  boy's  neck.  "  Why,  don't 
you  remember,"  he  cried,  with  pleased  inter- 
est, "  how  I  said  I  had  a  brother  like  you 
at  home } " 

And  so  the  two  lay  close  together  in  a 
delighted  gossip  until  the  surgeon  came, 
and  laughingly  but  peremptorily  drove 
them  apart.  They  told  him  something  of 
the  strange  story,  and  an  attendant  went 
out    and  found    Foldeen,   and  brought  him 


2  34  ^  Day  in  the   Wilderness. 

in,  and  he  added  many  striking  variations 
to  the  legend  which  now,  by  midnight, 
had  become  the  talk  of  the  brigade. 

General  Boyce  came  back  to  the  hospi- 
tal tent  purposely  to  see  the  boy  from  his 
own  Dearborn  County  whom  men  were 
talking  about.  He  nodded  his  head  ap- 
provingly as  he  stood  by  the  bedside  and 
listened  to  Foldeen's  excited  narrative  of 
the  lad's  fight  with   Red  Pete. 

"  I  remember  hearing  of  that  fellow  be- 
fore," he  said.  "  We'll  hang  him  in  the 
morning,  if  we  have  to  go  without  break- 
fast to  do  it." 

Foldeen  shook  his  head.  "  He  is  no 
good  for  hanging,  dot  Red  Pete,"  he  ex- 
plained. "  When  the  fire  is  gone  out  by 
dot  breastwork  where  he  vas,  maybe  you 
find  some  chargoals  from  him — und  maybe 
two,  dree  buttons  —  dot's  all." 

The  beautiful  city  by  the  lake  wore  its 
most  velvety,  green  robes  of  June  when 
Lieutenant  Hornbeck,  who  had  been  home 
invalided  for  some  weeks,  was  able  at  last 


Lafe  rescues  mt  Officer.  235 

to  accept  the  reception  which  the  good 
people  of  St.  Mark's  Church  wished  to 
hold  in  his  honor. 

It  seemed  as  if  all  Cleveland  sought  for 
admission  to  this  festival  of  welcome  to 
the  brave  young  officer.  Yet  when  he 
came  in,  leaning  on  his  wife's  arm,  and 
with  the  flush  of  honest  pride  mantling 
upon  the  pallor  of  his  face,  it  turned  out 
that  the  real  hero  of  the  evening  was  the 
wiry,  brown-faced  boy  he  brought  with 
him. 

Lafe's  story  had  been  told  in  many  other 
places.  They  knew  it  by  heart  here  in  his 
new  home,  where  henceforth  he  was  to 
live  with  his  cousin.  He  blushed  many 
times  that  evening  at  the  things  admiring 
people  said  to  his  face  about  him,  and  he 
still  says  if  folks  will  insist  on  discussing 
it,  that  the  'only  interesting  thing  of  the 
whole  day  was  his  taking  a  shine  to  his 
cousin  before  he  knew  who  he  was. 


HOW   DICKON    CAME   BY   HIS 

NAME. 


HOW  DICKON  CAME  BY  HIS  NAME. 

^  STalc  of  C!)r{0tma0  in  tl^e  ©Ilien  Eimz, 


diOic 


CHAPTER    I. 

THE    MAKING    OF    A    SOLDIER. 

T^HOUGH  more  crests  are  blazoned  now- 
adays than  there  are  minutes  in  which 
the  heralds  may  count  them,  yet  old  fami- 
lies still  live,  with  roots  deep  down  in 
rural  England's  soil,  and  nourish  in  quiet 
legends  which,  when  they  come  to  notice, 
are  the  fairest  flowers  in  the  garden  of 
English  folk-lore. 

Such  a  tale  the  Tambows  of  Shropshire 
can  tell.  Once,  it  is  dimly  understood,  the 
narrative  was  written  out,  and  even  printed 
from  types  in  Caxton's  own  press.  If  this 
be  true,  the  book  has  long  been  lost.  But 
the  story  is  worth  keeping. 
239 


240     How  Dickon  came  by  his  Name. 

Dickon  looked  at  this  time  to  be  well 
on  in  his  teens.  He  was  so  tall  and  stout 
a  lad  that  grown  men  spoke  to  him,  now 
and  again,  as  to  one  of  themselves.  Just 
what  his  age  might  be,  however,  it  lay 
beyond  mortal  power  to  discover.  His 
mother  was  long  since  dead.  His  native 
hamlet  had  been  wiped  by  fire  and  sword 
from  the  face  of  the  earth. 

His  father  could  remember  nothing  more 
of  Dickon's  birth  than  that  it  was  either 
just  before  the  Battle  of  Bloreheath  in 
Stafford,  or  soon  after  the  fierce  fight  at 
Mortimer's  Cross  in  Hereford.  The  one 
would  make  him  sixteen  years  old,  the 
other  scarcely  more  than  fourteen.  Whether 
it  was  sixteen  or  fourteen  no  living  soul 
in  England  cared. 

There  was  as  yet  no  other  name  for 
him  than  Dickon  —  that  is  to  say,  any  se- 
curely fastened  name.  He  had  been  called 
Smithson,  and  even  Smith,  by  word  of 
mouth  among  stranQ^ers.  But  the  roug^h 
men    close  at  hand    commonly  hailed    him 


The  Making  of  a  Soldier.  241 

with  oaths,  which  pointed  to  no  surname 
whatever.  Indeed,  surnames  were  matters 
strictly  for  his  betters  —  for  gentlefolk,  or 
at  the  least  for  thrifty  yeomen  with  a  dozen 
cows  or  fourscore  sheep  on  a  walk. 

There  could  never  have  been  a  thought, 
therefore,  in  Dickon's  head  as  to  what 
name  was  likest  to  stick  to  him,  since  of 
all  unlabelled  hinds  in  Salop  surely  he  was 
the  lowliest. 

Thought,  in  truth,  is  an  over-fine  word 
for  aught  that  went  forward  in  Dickon's 
brain.  He  knew  only  some  few  things 
more  clearly  than  did  the  horses  and  dogs 
about  him. 

He  did  know,  first  of  all,  that  his  grim 
master,  who  lived  up  in  the  castle  just  above, 
was  named  Sir  Watty  Curdle,  and  that  the 
castle  itself  was  Egswith.  That  he  was  Sir 
Watty's  man  was  by  far  the  most  important 
thing  there  was  for  him  to  know;  and  that 
it  might  be  kept  always  fresh  before  his  eyes 
and  patent  to  all  others,  this  lord's  device 
of   two   running   hares,  back   to   back,   one 


242     How  Dickon  cajne  by  his  Name. 

turned  upside  down,  was  sewed  upon  the 
breast  of  Dickon's  leather  jerkin. 

Dickon  had  more  reasons  for  holding 
his  master  to  be  a  foul  ruffian  and  robber 
than  the  dumb  brutes  in  stable  and  kennel 
could  have  possessed,  though  doubtless 
they,  too,  were  of  the  same  opinion.  He 
knew,  furthermore,  that  the  king  was  a 
tall  and  fine  young  man,  because  he  had 
s^en  him  after  Tewksbury.  He  knew  that 
the  Lady  Curdle  came  from  Cheshire,  which 
was  reputed  to  lie  northward. 

He  knew  that  all  men-at-arms  who  wore 
three  stags'  heads  on  their  jackets  were 
his  natural  enemies ;  and  that  it  was 
thought  better  to  be  a  soldier  than  the 
son  of  a  smith.  Sometimes  he  thought  that 
it    must    be  better  to  be  dead   than  either. 

Dickon's  belongings  were  all  on  his  back. 
He  owned  a  thick  shirt  of  rough  woollen, 
which  had  been  his  share  of  the  spoil  of 
a  Yorkist  archer,  slain  the  year  before  in 
a  fray  on  Craven  highroad.  Formerly  the 
lad  had  been  harassed  by  dreams  that  the 


The  Making  ^of  a  Soldier.  243 

dead  man,  all  shivering  and  frosted  over, 
had  come  back  for  his  shirt,  but  these 
dreams  were  past  long  since,  and  he  wore 
the  shirt  now  like  a  second  skin,  so  wholly 
did  it  seem  a  part  of  him. 

Over  this  shirt  was  drawn  his  leather 
tunic,  which  was  becoming  too  tight.  Under 
this  were  fastened  with  cowhide  thongs  the 
points  of  his  old  leathern  hose,  also  strained 
now  almost  to  bursting.  His  shoes  were 
rude  and  worn  contrivances  of  leather, 
bound  on  over  ankle  and  instep  with  cords. 
His  neck  and  tangled  shock  of  yellow  hair 
were  hidden  under  a  caped  hood  of  coarse 
brown  cloth. 

In  these  garments  he  toiled  miserably  by 
day ;  in  them  he  slept  in  his  cold  corner  of 
the  smithy  floor  by  night.  By  night  and 
day  the  solitary  aspiration  of  his  mind  was 
for  the  time  when  he  might  escape  his 
father's  curses  and  beatings,  and  bear  a 
spear  among  the  men-at-arms. 

This  chance  came  to  him  suddenly,  on  a 
December    day,    when     the    air    over    the 


244     How  Dickon  came  by  his  Name. 

Marches  was  so  thick  and  gray  and  cold 
that  men  desired  to  fight,  if  only  to  keep 
their  blood  from  chilling  within  them.  Out 
of  this  chance  proceeded  strange  things,  the 
legend  of  which  has  lived  these  hundreds 
of  years  in  Salop. 

Sir  Watty  Curdle  did  what  he  dared 
toward  being  a  law  to  himself.  In  the 
fastness  of  the  Welsh  mountains,  just  back 
of  his  domain,  there  were  always  whisper- 
ings of  new  Lancastrian  plots  and  bold  ad- 
ventures. These  drifted  to  Egswith  Castle, 
on  its  steep,  ugly  crag,  and  made  an  atmos- 
phere of  treason  there  which  hung  over  the 
Marches  like  a  fog. 

That  Sir  Watty  had  a  rushlight's  choice 
between  King  Edward  and  Queen  Margaret 
no  one  ever  believed.  If  it  had  suited  his 
ends  he  would  as  easily  have  been  the 
king's  man.  But  since  the  hated  Stanleys 
were  cheek  by  jowl  with  the  king,  there 
could  be  nothing  for  Sir  Watty  but  the 
other  side. 

Besides,  he   had  grievances.     That   is  to 


The  Making  of  a  Soldier.  245 

say,  other  gentlemen  in  the  countryside  had 
houses  and  fair  daughters  and  plate  and  fat 
cattle.  These  things  rankled  in  Sir  Watty's 
mind. 

Sir  Watty  rose  on  this  December  morn- 
ing with  his  head  clear  from  a  month's  ca- 
rouse, with  his  muscles  itching  for  sharp 
work,  and  with  the  eager  sniff  of  rapine  in 
his  nostrils. 

Word  that  sport  was  afoot  ran  presently 
about  through  the  galleries  and  yards  and 
clustering  outer  hovels  within  the  high- 
perched  walls  of  Egswith.  Rough,  brawny 
men  forthwith  dragged  out  haubergeons  and 
sallets,  and  leathern  jackets  stuffed  with 
wool,  and  smiled  grimly  over  them  and 
put  them  on. 

Two  troopers  in  sleeveless  coats  of  plate 
mail,  and  heavy  greaves  and  boots,  came 
clanking  down  the  jagged  hill-path.  They 
routed  with  loud  halloos  the  threescore  peo- 
ple who  dwelt  in  the  foul  and  toppling 
huts  huddled  at  the  foot  of  the  crag,  under 
the  shadow  of  gray  Egswith. 


246     How  Dickon  came  by  his  Name. 

"  Ho !  Ho-o  ! "  they  bawled.  "  Out  with 
you  —  out !  out !     Your  lord  rides   to-day !  " 

A  bustling  crowd  arose  on  the  instant. 
Strong  men  swarmed  in  the  open.  Some 
were  sent  into  the  fields  with  horns  to  sum- 
mon yokels  who  were  grubbing  among  the 
roots.  Others  haled  forth  armor  and  saddle- 
gear,  and  bows  and  spears,  and  shouted  joy- 
ous quips  from  group  to  group. 

Dull-browed  women,  with  backs  bent  like 
beasts  of  burden,  brought  food  and  hoods 
and  such  tackle  at  command,  in  sulky 
silence.  Half-clad  children  hung  about  the 
doorways,  gazing  wonderingly.  From  the 
castle  gates  some  horses  were  being  led  out ; 
and  about  the  high  walls  rang  the  shrill 
blare  of  trumpet-calls. 

The  two  troopers,  after  setting  all  in 
motion  outside,  clanked  their  way  into  the 
smithy,  and  the  black  one,  Morgan,  he 
with  a  brutish  face,  seamed  and  gashed 
with  red  scars,  —  where  only  one  eye  re- 
mained to  glare  in  rude  arrogance,  —  kicked 
the  door  open,  and  cried  out  as  he  did  so: 


The  Making  of  a  Soldier,  247 

"  Are  you  dead  here,  then  ?  What  are 
your  ears  for,  fools  ?     And  no  fire  !  " 

Dickon  crossed  the  floor  of  the  smithy, 
and  stood  before  the  intruders. 

"  The  old  man  will  light  fires  no  more," 
he  said,  with  dogged  indifference,  pointing 
a  sidelong  thumb  to  the  bundle  of  straw 
at  the  tail  of  the  forge,  beneath  the  bel- 
lows. 

There,  flat  on  his  back,  lay  the  smith, 
with  wide-open,  staring  eyes,  and  a  face 
of  greenish-brazen  hue ;  his  huge  grizzled 
beard  spread  stiffly  outward  like  the  bris- 
tling collar  of   some  unclean  giant  vulture. 

"  He  was  ever  a  surly  swine,"  Morgan 
growled.  "  Even  as  we  need  him  most, 
he  fails  us  thus  !  " 

Dickon  offered  no  opinion  upon  this. 
"  It  fell  on  him  in  the  night,"  he  said. 

Morgan  leant  over  as  far  as  his  iron 
casings  permitted,  to  note  what  share  of 
breath  remained  in  the  smith's  body.  Then 
he  rose,  and  looked  the  lad  from  top  to 
toe  with  his  sullen  single  eye. 


248     How  Dickon  came  by  his  Name. 

"  Get  you  into  his  foot-gear,  then,  and 
follow  on,"  he  snarled  curtly. 

Then  for  the  first  time  the  other  man- 
at-arms  spoke.  He  was  a  huge,  reddish 
warrior,  with  the  shoulders  of  an  ox,  and 
a  face  which  flamed  forth  from  out  the 
casings  of  his  head-piece  like  a  setting 
winter  sun. 

"  Were  it  not  better  to  leave  him  ? "  this 
Rawly  asked.  "  If  he  chance  to  get  his 
head  broken,  how  will  Sir  Watty  make 
shift  for  a  smith  ?  " 

Morgan  sneered  this  down.  "  The  lout 
hath  not  the  wit  for  the  tenth  part  of  a 
smith,"  he  said.  "  Between  this  and  Brom- 
field  there  are  a  dozen  of  the  craft  to  be 
had  at  the  bare  mention  of  a  halter." 

Thus  it  was  that  a  soldier's  life  opened 
before  Dickon. 

He  made  haste  to  don  his  father's  sleeve- 
less chain  coat  and  sallet.  Then,  choosing 
a  crossbow  and  sheaf  of  quarrels  for  him- 
self, he  gathered  such  other  weapons  as 
the  smithy  held,  and  carried  them  out  into 


V 


'ft 


■  Sir  Watfy  came  stalking  down." 


The  Making  of  a  Soldier.  251 

the  open.  Now  the  troop  was  forming, 
and  the  start  close  at  hand. 

The  lad  had  seen  many  of  these  rallies 
for  a  raid ;  but  this  one,  wherein  he  was  to 
have  part,  had  a  new  glory  in  his  eyes. 
He  rubbed  shoulders  with  the  men  who 
were  making  ready  against  the  ride.  With 
the  boldness  of  an  equal  he  bore  a  hand 
to  help  them  fit  the  armor  to  their  backs. 
There  was  none  to  make  him  afraid.  When 
a  knavish  hobler  offered  to  force  his  cross- 
bow from  him  in  exchange  for  a  rusty 
pole-axe,  Dickon  smote  him  on  the  head 
with  a  full  man's  might  and  heart,  and  kept 
his  weapon. 

At  last  Sir  Watty  came  stalking  down 
the  broken,  winding  path,  with  his  chest- 
nut stallion  led  prancing  from  rock  to  rock 
at  his  heels.  Behind  him  came  a  score  of 
men-at-arms,  and  then  still  other  horses  at 
halter. 

The  knight  stopped  on  the  boulder  at 
the  foot  of  the  hill,  that  two  men  might 
lift  him  to  the  saddle.     As  he  moved  for- 


252     How  Dickon  came  by  his  Name. 

ward  there  arose  a  great,  joyful  shout  and 
clanking  bustle  of  men  mounting  to  follow. 
Dickon  was  of  the  sorrier  sort  who  must 
run  on  their  own  legs ;  but  no  man  on 
armored  steed  was  prouder  than  he. 

Sir  Watty  sat  with  alert,  poised  light- 
ness in  his  stirrups,  as  if  the  brigandines 
which  cased  him  from  nape  to  ankle  had 
been  of  linen  instead  of  close-set,  burnished 
metal  plates  overlapping  one  the  other  like 
a  fish's  scales  and  planned  with  cunning 
joints.  Gilt  nails  studded  the  angles  of 
this  glittering  suit,  and  the  body  of  it  was 
covered  with  green  velvet,  with  the  two 
hares  of  Curdle  wrought  in  gold  upon  the 
breast. 

Unlike  the  lesser  riders,  he  wore  bascinet 
and  gorget  on  head  and  neck,  with  light 
pauldrons,  velvet-clad  and  shaped  like 
eagles'  talons,  running  out  to  his  shoulders 
over  the  scaled  mail. 

There  were  unnumbered  tales  as  to  how 
Sir  Watty  had  come  by  this  princely  har- 
ness, all  of  a  likeness  in  that  they  imputed 


The  Making  of  a  Soldier.  253 

its  possession  to  plunder.  One  might  well 
credit  this  on  looking  at  the  man's  face 
as  he  rode  with  lifted  visor  —  the  curved, 
bony,  beak-like  nose,  the  stone-gray  eyes, 
the  thin,  brief  line  of  lips  twisted  tight  to- 
gether—  all  as  relentless  and  shrewd  and 
cruel  as  something  born  of  snake  or  hawk. 

Clustering  at  his  back  rode  thirty  men- 
at-arms,  no  other  knight  among  them. 
There  were  unfrocked  monks,  loose,  wander- 
ing troopers,  murderers,  revolted  townsmen 
and  mere  generic  ruffians  from  anywhere 
on  the  face  of  the  earth,  all  gathered  to 
Egswith  by  the  magnet  of  its  lawless  fame, 
and  all  risking  life  and  facing  punishment 
here  and  hereafter  with  Sir  Watty  because 
they  knew  him  for  a  master  knave  and 
robber. 

These  wore  ill-assorted  armor,  the  ran- 
dom product  of  years  of  raiding  —  some 
nearly  covered  with  iron,  others  with  no 
more  than  a  rusted  haubergeon  and  bat- 
tered sallet.  Of  weapons,  too,  there  was 
as   mongrel  a  show.      Some  bore   hagbuts, 


2  54     How  Dickon  came  by  his  Name. 

or  hand-guns,  to  be  fired  with  powder,  and 
had  leather  bags  full  of  stone  bullets  hang- 
ing at  their  saddles.  Among  the  others 
were  crossbows  with  wyndacs  and  without, 
lances,  bills,  long  and  short  pole-axes,  and 
even  spiked  clubs  of  iron. 

Dickon  joined  the  score  of  footmen  who 
turned  into  the  road  as  the  cavalcade 
filed  by. 

For  a  little  these  all  trudged  behind  the 
horses,  bearing  their  lighter  cuirasses  and 
caps  and  their  long  or  cross-bows  with 
easy  spirits.  It  was  a  morning  made  for 
walking,  with  black  frost  holding  the 
ground  so  stiff  that  it  rang  like  stone 
under  the  clattering  hoofs  ahead.  A  sharp 
air  tweaked  nostrils  and  ears,  and  made 
the  blood  glow  even  in  churlish  veins. 

It  was  to  the  footmen  nothing  short  of 
delight  to  stride  onward  thus,  with  a  cap- 
tain in  front  who  feared  naught,  and  on 
one's  shoulder  a  weapon  of  death. 

Later  in  the  day,  when  their  course  lay 
over  a  rough  moorland  stretch  where  bleak 


The  Making  of  a  Soldier.  255 

winds  whistled,  and  hunger  began  to  gnaw 
upon  fatigue,  the  adventure  became  less 
joyful.  Still  Dickon  pressed  forward  upon 
the  freshest  hoof-marks,  gay  of  heart. 
Others,  who  carried  more  years  and  a 
staler  fancy,  began  to  lag.  Then  an  inter- 
esting thing  happened. 

At  a  word  from  Morgan,  huge  Rawly 
and  a  dozen  others  wheeled  out  from  the 
troop  and,  halting  at  the  side  of  the  high- 
way in  waiting  till  the  footmen  had  passed, 
drew  close  in  behind  them. 

To  make  the  meaning  of  this  more  clear, 
some  of  these  horsemen  pleasantly  pricked 
their  spear-points  into  the  weariest  of  those 
walking  before  them.  Thereafter  the  whole 
body  moved  on  more  swiftly. 

None  of  the  peasants  knew  whither  the 
expedition  was  proceeding.  For  the  first 
few  leagues,  journeying  down  the  valley  of 
the  little  stream  which  rose  back  of  Egswith, 
they  had  seen  at  a  distance  more  than  one 
frowning  castle.  But  they  had  come  near 
to  no  human  habitation.     Then  had  ensued 


256     How  Dickon  came  by  his  Name. 

the  arduous  march  across  the  moor,  with 
no  sign  of  castle  or  roof-tree. 

But  now,  some  hours  after  high  noon, 
they  were  advancing  upon  a  better-ordered 
country,  with  smooth  roads  and  farm-lands. 
The  mountains  on  the  right  were  farther 
away  now,  and  hung  pale  blue  upon  the 
confines  of  the  gray  sky.  There  were  farm- 
houses in  view,  and  these  were  of  a  larger 
and  more  prosperous  aspect  than  Dickon 
had  seen  before.  The  husbandmen  seemed 
to  have  small  appetite  for  fighting,  too,  for 
they  could  be  discerned  presently  fleeing 
with  their  women,  children,  and  cattle  across 
their  fields  to  woodland  shelter. 

The  spectacle  of  people  making  their 
escape  before  his  approach  was  new  to 
Dickon.  He  swelled  out  his  chest  to  a 
greater  girth  because  of  it,  and  forgot  the 
heated  aching  of  his  feet. 

Sir  Watty  permitted  the  men  to  enter 
and  ransack  one  of  these  farm-places.  No 
living  soul  was  to  be  discovered,  but  of 
food  there  was  plenty.     Some  of  the  older 


The  Making  of  a  Soldier.  257 

and  wiser  troopers  knew  where  to  look  for 
gear  of  less  transient  moment.  But  the 
spoil  was  not  of  importance. 

Soon  they  were  all  pressing  on  again, 
along  the  highroad  traversing  this  peaceful 
and  fertile  plain.  By  and  by  an  old  archer 
who  trudged  by  Dickon's  side  halted  in 
surprise,  and  as  he  stepped  forward  again 
growled  out  in  perplexed  disquiet:  — 

"Nay  —  aught  but  that.  Sir  Waddy,  aught 
but  that!" 

Dickon,  looking  ahead,  noted  that  his 
lord,  after  a  moment's  parley,  had  turned 
his  course  to  the  left,  and  was  leading  the 
party  into  a  narrow  lane. 

Some  of  the  hoblers,  mounted  on  their 
light  nags,  were  sent  flying  off  across  fields 
still  more  to  the  left,  and  Morgan  came 
galloping  back  to  the  rear  of  the  column. 
When  he  had  muttered  some  charge  to 
Rawly  and  then  set  back  again  to  join  his 
chief,  it  became  known  that  Rawly  with 
his  handful  of  horse  and  all  the  footmen 
were  to  continue  on  the  highroad. 


258     How  Dickon  came  by  his  Name. 

The  lad  would  never  have  thought  out 
what  this  division  of  forces  signified,  but 
the  old  archer,  little  by  little,  and  more  to 
hear  his  own  voice  than  from  kindness  to 
the  boy,  informed  his  mind.  The  company 
had  been  split  in  twain  because  the  quarry 
was  near  at  hand,  and  must  needs  be 
surrounded. 

This  was  good  soldiery,  but  in  the  pres- 
ent case  it  would  be  useless.  Sir  Watty 
and  every  mother's  son  with  him  would 
be  slain — the  footmen  as  well  as  the  rest. 
Of  this  there  could  be  no  tittle  of  doubt, 
the  archer  cheeringly  insisted.  He  was  a 
native  of  these  parts,  and  knew  the  evil 
repute  of  the  stronghold  they  were  about 
to  attack.  Not  a  man-jack  of  them  would 
ever  find  himself  back  upon  this  blessed 
highroad  again !     Of  that  he  made  certain. 

Dickon  listened  to  these  astounding 
tidings  without  any  very  near  sense  of 
fear.  To  look  Death  in  the  eye  seemed 
not  an  unnatural  thing,  now  that  he  was 
a   soldier    and   wore    an    iron    jacket.       But 


The  Making  of  a  Soldier.  259 

his  blood  chilled  within  him  when  he 
heard  the  answer  to  his  idle  query. 

"  Is  it  bigger  then  than  Egswith  ? "  he 
had  asked. 

The  gray  old  archer,  stealing  an  appre- 
hensive glance  about  him,  and  whispering 
sidelong,  replied :  — 

"  There  are  no  walls  —  that  eye  can  see. 
But  inside  is  a  sorcerer  who  fights  with 
magic  fires,  and  can  on  the  instant  raise 
up  battlements  of  poisoned  adders  and 
scorpions,  and  blow  upon  us  with  a  wind 
so  deadly  that  at  its  touch  our  flesh  will 
melt  from  our  bones.  If  yon  men  wist 
whither  Sir  Waddy  led  them,  they  would 
fall  upon  him  first  and  tear  him  limb  from 
hmb." 


CHAPTER    II. 

A    BURST    FOR    FREEDOM. 

T^HE  crossbow  was  audibly  rattling  on 
Dickon's  shoulder  and  his  knees  smote 
together  after  hearing  what  the  old  archer 
had  told  him  about  the  so-called  sorcerer. 
He  looked  hurriedly  behind,  with  perhaps 
some  vague  thoughts  of  flight,  but  the 
sight  of  the  fierce  horsemen  at  his  heels 
scattered  these. 

The  boy  plodded  miserably  forward, 
catching  only  here  and  there  a  stray  word 
of  what  the  archer  further  said.  This 
was  to  the  effect  that  the  place  they  were 
pushing  toward  —  dread  Camber  Dane  — 
had  been  the  home  of  the  mad  baron, 
Lord  Tasktorn,  for  many  years.  Now  for 
other  many  years  his  equally  mad  younger 
son.  Sir  John  Camber,  had  been  in  pos- 
session of  the  estate. 
260 


A  Burst  for  Freedom.  261 

A  gruesome  and  awful  man,  by  all  ac- 
counts, was  this  Sir  John,  who  lived  alone 
with  uncanny,  dwarfish  servant-people.  It 
was  said  that  he  conjured  gold  and  jewels 
out  of  the  unholy  flames  he  kindled,  and 
was  accurst  of  God  and  the  church. 

Little  enough  of  this  did  Dickon  com- 
prehend, for  the  idea  of  an  alchemist  was 
new  to  him ;  but  the  terrors  which  the 
archer  painted  were  none  the  less  real  to 
the  lad. 

He  fancied  that  the  air  in  the  tangled 
copse  through  which  they  were  now  push- 
ing their  upward  path  already  bore  the 
fatal  taint  of  magic.  He  strove  to  breathe 
as  little  of  it  as  he  could,  and  thus  to 
avoid  its  spell. 

The  horses  had  been  left  behind,  and 
their  riders  were  now  on  foot  like  the 
rest. 

Dickon  looked  anxiously  about  for  some 
offer  of  escape.  Then  affrighted  visions 
of  what  death  really  was  rose  before  his 
eyes  —  all  with   startling  suddenness  taking 


262     How  Dickon  ca^ne  by  his  Name. 

on  the  likeness  of  his  father,  lying  gasping 
on  the  straw  of  the  squalid  forge.  It 
horrified  his  senses. 

He  stumbled  blindly  on  with  the  rest, 
not  seeing  where  or  with  whom  he  was 
going,  and  ever  and  again  receiving  blows 
from  the  armed  men  behind  him,  which 
he  scarce  noted. 

All  at  once  they  all  stood  forth  on  the 
edge  of  a  promontory.  Beneath  them 
spread  out  a  picture  of  almost  enchanted 
loveliness,  with  park  and  lawn,  with  gar- 
den, orchard,  and  lake.  In  the  centre  of 
all  was  a  peaceful  mansion,  turreted  and 
gabled  for  beauty  rather  than  defence. 
Engirdling  all  was  a  broad  oaken  zone  of 
forest.  Midwinter  though  it  was,  the 
sylvan  prospect  seemed  to  speak  of  spring, 
and  grass  and  trees  alike   were  green. 

As  he  looked  down  upon  this  scene, 
Dickon  felt  the  fog  of  fright  lifting  from 
his  mind.  Somehow  the  notion  dawned 
upon  him  that  if  death  by  a  sorcerer's 
wiles    awaited    him    here    in     this    vale,    it 


A  Burst  for  Freedom.  263 

must  be  a  gracious  and  almost  pleasant 
death  to  fit  the  place. 

His  terrors  left  him,  —  as  strangely  swift 
as  they  had  come,  —  and  in  their  place 
there  rose  a  curious  sensation  of  regret 
that  so  sweet  and  goodly  a  home  as  this 
should  be  ravaged. 

This  was,  however,  too  novel  a  thought 
to  take  easy  root,  and  he  forgot  it  again 
as  they  began  creeping  downward  along 
the  narrow,  shelving  path  to  the  park. 
The  marauding  party  were  sheltered  from 
view  the  whole  length  of  this  path  by  a 
hedge  the  height  of  a  man's  waist ;  and 
once  the  bottom  was  reached,  their  way 
led  throu2:h  a  wood  where  bushes  and 
saplings  grew  thickly  in  the  shadow  of 
Q[iant  oaks. 

When  at  last  the  end  of  this  had  been 
won,  they  were  close  to  the  rear  of  a 
small  stone  building  which  they  had  not 
seen  until  now.  An  arrow's  flight  away 
was  the  great  house,  also  in  plain  view  — 
and  there  grave  things  were  going  forward. 


264     How  Dickon  came  by  his  Name. 

As  Dickon  gazed  out,  a  great  cloud  of 
black  smoke  burst  forth  from  the  upper 
window  in  one  of  the  towers  of  this  man- 
sion, and  through  the  smoke  he  saw  a 
dark  object  hurled  outward,  and  whirl 
swiftly  to  the  ground. 

As  it  fell  and  lay  sprawled  shapelessly 
there,  the  lad  realized  that  it  was  a  human 
being.  Then,  in  a  dazed  way,  he  under- 
stood that  he  was  witnessino^  the  sacking^ 
of  a  manor-house. 

Sir  Watty  and  his  troop  were  already 
inside,  and  from  the  narrow  doors  and 
windows  faint  noises  proceeded  —  screams 
of  terror,  curses  of  rage,  and  the  clashing 
of  weapons.  Through  a  little  postern  door 
two  of  the  Egswith  marauders  were  thus 
early  dragging  out  spoil  in  hangings,  armor, 
and  russet  and  murray  gowns. 

At  the  back  of  the  mansion,  to  judge  by 
the  SQunds,  there  was  fighting  in  the  open 
air  not  less  fierce  than  that  within. 

At  sight  of  the  booty  issuing  from  the 
postern,    Rawly    uttered    a    roar   of    greedy 


A  Burst  /o7''  Freedom,  265 

exultation,  and  Dickon,  in  the  twinkling  of 
an  eye,  found  himself  bereft  of  all  his  late 
companions,  who  followed  Rawly  in  a  head- 
long race  for  the  scene  of  plunder. 

The  old  archer  did  hold  aloof  for  a  brief 
space,  calling  out  to  Dickon  that  in  a  min- 
ute, or  two  at  the  utmost,  all  these  would 
assuredly  be  stricken  dead ;  but  when  no 
such  thing  happened,  and  more  costly  stuffs 
appeared  to  view  in  the  hands  of  the  ravish- 
ers,  he  threw  off  his  fears  of  magic,  and  ran 
forward  at  the  top  of  his  speed  to  join  in  the 
work  of  plunder. 

Such  combat  as  had  been  needed  was 
now  at  an  end.  Sir  Watty  —  unless,  indeed, 
he  had  other  visits  on  his  mind  —  might 
have  safely  wrought  all  this  mischief  with 
the  fifth  part  of  his  force.  Dickon  mar- 
velled vaguely  that  so  many  men  had  been 
brought  for  such  paltry  fighting  —  in  igno- 
rance that  his  lord's  true  danger  lay  on  the 
highroad,  returning  with  his  spoils. 

Why  the  lad  had  not  gone  forward  with 
his  fellows  he  could  not  have  told.     There 


266     How  Dickon  came  by  his  Name. 

was  no  reason  why  the  thought  of  plunder 
should  be  repugnant  to  him. 

His  whole  life  had  been  spent  among  men 
who  lived  by  plunder,  and  only  in  the  dim- 
mest fashion  did  he  comprehend  that  there 
were  people  able  to  command  horses  and 
armor  who  lived  by  other  means. 

Yet  he  made  no  motion  to  join  the  others, 
and  in  the  curious  interest  with  which  he 
stared  upon  the  scene  before  him,  had  wholly 
foro;otten  the  crossbow  under  his  arm. 

As  he  looked  a  swaying,  shouting  knot  of 
men-at-arms  appeared  at  the  chief  door  of 
the  mansion,  dragging  forward,  with  great 
buffetings  and  scuffling,  a  person  whom 
Dickon  saw  to  be,  despite  his  struggles  and 
disorder,  one  of  dignity  and  presence. 

As  they  haled  him  out  upon  the  sward, 
and  he  stood  erect  among  them,  the  lad 
noted  that  he  was  tall  and  past  middle  age, 
with  the  white  face  which  goes  with  gentle 
pursuits,  and  that  he  wore  a  blue  side-gown 
with  fur  upon  it,  and  had  a  chain  of  gold 
about  his  neck. 


A  Durst  for  Freedom.  267 

His  brow  was  bleeding  from  a  blow  with 
an  iron  orauntlet,  but  he  held  himself  straifjht 
and  proudly.  Now  that  they  had  ceased  to 
buffet  him,  he  seemed  to  be  putting  ques- 
tions to  them  which  they  answered  by  ribald 
shouts.  Instinctively  Dickon  left  the  wood 
and  began  to  cross  the  open  space,  that  he 
might  the  better  hear  the  gentle  questions 
and  the  rude  answers. 

Sir  Watty  Curdle  came  suddenly  out 
from  the  door,  and  made  his  way  with  swift, 
striding  steps  to  the  centre  of  this  strange 
group.  The  shouts  of  the  soldiers  rose  the 
higher  for  a  moment,  and  then  ceased  alto- 
gether, to  make  silence  for  what  their  dumb 
show  gave  to  be  a  talk  between  the  robber- 
knight  and  the  gentleman. 

Dickon  had  not  won  near  enough  to  catch 
even  the  sound  of  their  voices,  when  the 
parley  came  to  an  abrupt  ending. 

Sir  Watty  all  at  once  lifted  his  mailed 
hand,  and  with  it  struck  the  other  man  a  vio- 
lent blow  in  the  face.  As  the  gowned  and 
unarmed  man  reeled,  a  soldier  with  his  pole- 


268     How  Dickon  came  by  his  Name. 

axe  completed  his  master's  work.  The 
stricken  gentleman  fell  heavily,  sidelong, 
and  two  others  on  the  instant  pitched  upon 
the  body  to  tear  off  the  chain  and  furred 
robe. 

While  he  stood  watching  this,  Dickon 
felt  his  heart  leap  upward,  and  then  sink 
with  a  great  sickening.  He  stood  as  if 
turned  to  stone  for  a  moment;  and  when 
sense  returned  to  him,  he  had  uncon- 
sciously brought  his  crossbow  forward  and 
fitted  a  bolt  in  it,  and  begun  to  draw  the 
string  home.    To  do  what?    He  never  knew. 

Some  soldiers  were  running  in  his  direc- 
tion across  the  sward,  sounding  the  halloo 
of  the  chase,  and  pointing  their  weapons 
toward  him.  His  first  thousfht  —  that  their 
approach  meant  an  attack  upon  him  — 
bred  promptly  the  resolve  to  die  as  hard 
as  might  be. 

He  set  his  heels  firmly,  and  again  began 
to  draw  his  bow ;  but  then  it  became  ap- 
parent that  these  running  men  strove  to 
call  his  attention  to  some  other  matter,  for 


A  Btirst  for  Fj'-ccdom.  269 

they  themselves  were  headed  now  obliquely 
away  from  him. 

Turning,  he  saw  that  two  persons,  an 
old  man  and  a  boy,  were  fleeing  for  their 
lives  toward  the  wood.  They  had  come 
from  the  small  house  near  by,  and  might 
have  won  safety  by  this  time  if  his  pres- 
ence there  had  not  forced  them  to  bend 
in  their  course. 

Without  an  instant's  thought  he  began 
running  after  them  at  his  utmost  speed. 
It  seemed  to  him  that  he  had  never  moved 
with  half  the  swiftness  before  which  now 
lightened  his  heels. 

At  the  very  edge  of  the  forest,  the  old 
man  staggered  and  tripped  upon  his  long 
gown,  and  fell  face  to  earth,  so  that  the 
foremost  of  his  pursuers  tumbled  over 
him.  Dickon  had  a  momentary  glimpse 
of  a  reverend  white  head  and  long,  snowy 
beard  kicked  on  the  ground  among  iron 
boots,  and  of  a  half-dozen  furious  men 
fighting  over  what  seemed  already  to  be 
a  lifeless  body. 


270     Hoiv  Dickon  came  by  his  Name. 

Then  he  heard  a  hoarse  voice  cry  out, 
"The  lad  has  the  jewels!  After  him! 
After  him ! "  and  two  of  these  robbers 
plunged  on  in  headlong  pursuit  of  the 
fugitive  boy. 

What  Dickon  had  seen  thus  swiftly  had 
served  to  slacken  his  pace  for  but  a  mo- 
ment, and  now  that  he  gave  chase  again 
he  was  nearer  to  the  child  victim  than 
were  the  others. 

As  he  rushed  through  the  thick  tangle  of 
woodland,  he  could  see  that  the  boy  ahead 
bore  under  his  arm  a  casket,  the  weight 
of  which  so  wore  upon  his  frail  strength 
that  his  flight  could  last  but  a  little  longer. 
Then  it  came  that  Dickon  was  between  the 
strange  lad  and  his  pursuers,  being  very 
close  to  both,  and  was  turned  in  hot  re- 
solve to  face  these  murderers,  with  his 
crossbow  strung  and  levelled. 

It  seemed  to  cover  only  a  blinded  and 
whirling  instant  of  time  —  this  struggle 
which  enveloped  him.  Dickon  sent  his 
square-headed   bolt  with   a   twang!    straight 


A  Btirst  for'  Freedom.  271 

into  the  throat  of  him  who,  panting  and 
red-eyed,  led  the  chase.  As  this  one  threw 
up  his  knees  and  pitched  forward,  the  young 
archer  sprang  fiercely  over  the  body,  and 
fell  with  the  fury  of  despair  upon  the  other. 

There  was  a  terrible  brief  wrestle  upon 
the  frosted  leaves  and  moss.  Then  the 
second  ruffian  lay  suddenly  still. 

Dickon  stood  in  trembling  amaze  for  a 
little,  staring  down  upon  these  twain,  whom 
he  had  in  a  frenzied  second  put  beyond 
further  combat.  He  shook  like  any  winter 
leaf  as  he  looked,  and  his  legs  bent  beneath 
him  —  for  this  foremost  dead  man  was  Mor- 
gan, the  very  bone  and  sinew  of  Egswith's 
dread  band. 

To  be  burned  alive  were  the  lightest 
vengeance  for  such  a  trick  as  this. 

Dickon  now  thought  of  flight.  Turning 
in  haste,  he  saw  before  him  the  boy  with 
the  casket,  standing  at  the  entrance  to  a 
rocky  glade  just  beyond,  and  looking  out 
upon  him  with  a  white  face.  He  moved 
swiftly  to  him,  and  laid  hold  upon  the  box. 


272     How  Dickon  came  by  his  Name. 

"  Speed  for  your  life !  "  he  hissed ;  and 
then  the  pair,  with  no  further  word,  set 
forth  in  a  breathless  stumbling  race  through 
the  forest. 

Before  long  the  echoes  of  savage  shouts 
at  the  rear  rang  over  the  thicket,  but  the 
hunted  lads  only  shivered  in  silence  and 
pressed  on.  Then  the  cries  died  away,  and 
there  was  no  sound  in  all  the  woodland 
save  the  rustle  of  their  hurried  footsteps. 

At  last,  when  they  had  crossed  a  second 
valley,  and  had  arrived  at  a  hill  upon  which 
tall  fir  trees  grew  sparsely,  and  the  ground 
was  spread  with  a  dense  carpet  of  dry 
spines,  the  strange  boy  threw  himself  to 
the  earth. 

"  Further  I  may  not  stir,"  he  groaned, 
and  put  his  head  down  upon  the  soft  pine- 
needles  in  utter  weakness. 

Dickon  lifted  the  lad  in  his  arms,  and 
bore  him  a  little  way  to  a  nook  where  some 
stunted  firs,  bunched  close  in  a  ring  around 
an  ancestral  stump,  offered  shelter.  There, 
when    he   had   disposed    his   companion    in 


A  BtLTst  for  Freedom.  273 

comfort,  and  stripped  off  his  own  fretting 
haubergeon,  Dickon  had  time  to  think  and 
to  look  about  him. 

The  lad  whose  life  he  had  saved  in  so 
terrible  a  fashion  was  slender  and  small 
of  stature,  yet  had  a  face  which  to  Dickon 
seemed  full  of  the  wisdom  of  years.  It 
was  a  pale  and  girlish  face,  with  thin,  fine 
lineaments  and  blue  eyes  from  which  shone 
knowledge  and  swift  sense. 

The  brow  was  strangely  high  and  white. 
Dickon  had  seen  such  once  or  twice  amono: 
the  younger  of  the  preaching  road-friars. 
The  long  hair  which  fell  in  two  partings 
from  it  was  of  the  color  and  softness  of 
flax.  His  thin  legs  were  cased  in  some 
light  hose  which  Dickon  held  to  be  of  silk 
—  puny  enough  stuff  for  such  a  rude  jour- 
ney as  they  were  making,  and  now  much 
torn  and  stained. 

His  body  was  covered  with  a  tight  slashed 
tunic  of  a  brown  velvet.  His  cap  —  if  he 
set  out  with  one  —  had  been  lost  in  the 
flight. 


2  74     How  Dickon  came  by  his  Name. 

The  boy  seemed  to  desire  no  talk,  for  he 
lay  with  his  ear  to  the  earth,  breathing 
heavily,  and  so  Dickon  squatted  himself  on 
his  haunches,  and  pried  open  the  cover  of 
the  heavy  casket  he  had  borne  so  far. 

Instead  of  jewels,  as  he  had  looked  to 
find,  there  was  naught  but  a  block  of 
leather,  ornamented  with  raised  strips  of  vel- 
vet and  gilded  lines,  which  wholly  filled 
the  box.  When  Dickon  lifted  it  out  from 
its  encasing,  this  leather  top  turned  as  on 
a  hinge ;  and  fastened  below  it  at  the  back 
were  seen  many  folds  of  parchment,  one 
upon  the  other,  all  covered  with  black 
markings  strange  to  the  eye. 

Dickon  gazed  in  wonder  at  the  queer 
figures  upon  the  parchment.  Then  his 
slow  mind  recalled  the  archer's  talk  of 
magic,  and  he  let  the  thing  drop,  open  and 
with  crushed  pages,  flat  to  the  ground. 

The  lad  sprang  up  at  this  with  a  mur- 
mur of  alarm,  and  lifted  the  fallen  object, 
solicitously  smoothing  out  the  parchments 
and  shuttino;  the  leather  over  them.     Then 


A  BiLvst  for  Freedom.  275 

he  reached  for  the  casket,  and  put  it  in- 
side again,  eying  his  companion  with  vexed 
reo-ard  meanwhile. 

"  It  is  ill  to  mar  what  thou  canst  not 
mend,"  he  said  sharply. 

"  There  are  more  bolts  to  my  bow,  an 
you  mean  me  harm,"  Dickon  answered, 
with  a  stout  voice  enough,  but  much  un- 
certainty within.  He  took  up  his  weapon 
to  point  the  words. 

The  lad  in  velvet  laughed.  "  What  harm 
could  be  in  me } "  he  said,  and  laughed 
again.  "  Bolts  and  bows,  forsooth !  Why, 
thou  couldst  spoil  me  with  thy  thumb." 
And  still  he  laughed  on, 

"Yon  leathern  gear  —  is  it  goodly  .f^" 
Dickon  pointed  to  the  casket. 

"  What  —  my  Troilus  }  "  Looking  into 
Dickon's  honest  face,  he  understood  his 
fears,  and  answered  gently :  "  Nay,  ease  thy 
mind.  It  is  a  book  —  a  book  not  written, 
but  made  with  types.  It  tells  to  the  skilled 
eye  a  brave  story  —  but  not  braver,  good 
fellow,  than    to-day's    tale    of    thee.     Art   a 


276     How  Dickon  came  by  his  Name. 

stout  carle,  by  the  rood !  Who  is  thy 
master  ? " 

Dickon  bent  his  chin  upon  his  throat  to 
overlook  the  device  stitched  upon  his  breast, 
but  did  not  reply.  A  formless  idea  crossed 
his  brain  that  perchance  one  might  live  in 
forests  without  a  lord.  It  was  worth  think- 
ing upon. 

"  And  by  what  mercy  camest  thou  at 
my  heels  ? "  the  lad  pursued. 

Then,  as  these  words  brought  up  before 
him  the  awful  scene  at  the  woodland's  edge, 
he  fell  to  shuddering  and  choked  with  sobs. 

"  My  good  old  master,  —  to  die  thus  foully, 
—  oh,  woe !  woe ! "  he  moaned,  and  put 
down  his  head  again. 

Dickon  pricked  up  his  ears  at  the  word. 
"  Had  you  then  a  master,  too } "  he  asked, 
and  on  the  instant  there  sprouted  in  his 
heart  a  kindlier  feeling  for  the  lad.  They 
were  more  of  a  common  clay,  it  seemed, 
than  he  had  thought. 

"  But  you  have  no  badge ! "  he  com- 
mented. 


A  Burst  for  Freedom.  277 

"  Badge  ?  Badge  ? "  the  boy  said  hesi- 
tatingly, and  Dickon  noted  now  a  strange- 
ness of  sound  in  his  speech  which,  the 
while  he  had  held  him  to  be  of  rank,  had 
passed  unheard. 

"  What  means  it  —  badge  ?  "  asked  the 
lad ;  and  when  Dickon  pointed  to  the  two 
hares  on  his  own  breast,  the  stranger  burst 
again  into  laughter.  A  droll  boy  this, 
surely,  who  could  be  so  merry  and  so  tear- 
ful all  in  the  same  breath. 

"  Nay,  I  wear  no  man's  collar,"  he  said 
at  last ;  and  then,  in  pity  for  Dickon's  per- 
plexity, explained.  "  The  good  old  man, 
Geraldus  Hansenius,  was  my  master  only 
in  lov^e  and  courtesy,  and  in  that  he 
taught  me  in  all  the  deep  mysteries  of  his 
craft. 

"  He  brought  me  from  my  own  land,  and 
here,  where  Sir  John  gave  us  honor  and  fair 
lodgment,  we  printed  the  book.  And  now, 
lo !  in  this  short  hour  Sir  John  and  Geraldus 
are  foully  done  to  death,  and  Camber  Dane 
is    despoiled  —  and    the    Troilus    and    I   are 


278     How  Dickon  came  by  his  Name. 

hiding  for  our  lives,  like  hares  in  a  thicket. 
Ach  Gott!     Ach  Gott!" 

At  this  there  were  more  moans. 

"  No  hare  am  I,"  said  Dickon,  stoutly, 
"  but  if  they  try  me,  more  like  a  wolf.  Pick 
me  out  these  threads." 

He  knelt  beside  the  lad,  who  with  a 
bodkin  from  his  doublet  ripped  one  by  one 
the  hated  lines  that  had  shown  Dickon  to 
be  evil  Sir  Watty's  man. 

Then  Dickon  stood  upright,  and  filled 
himself  with  a  great,  deep  breath.  The  new 
sense  of  liberty  seemed  to  raise  his  stature 
and  swell  his  girth.  He  took  off  his  iron 
sallet,  and  shook  his  free  head  proudly, 
nearer  to  the  sky  than  it  had  ever  before 
been  lifted. 

"We  will  live  in  the  greenwood,"  he  said 
in  bold,  boyish  confidence. 


w 


I 


CHAPTER   III. 

A    STRANGE    CHRISTMAS    EVE. 

HEN  two  nights  and  two  days  had 
passed,  Dickon  and  Andreas  found 
themselves  on  the  furthermost  edge  of 
the  forest.  Here  skirted  the  woodland  a 
highroad  which  neither  had  seen  before. 
Beyond  this  were  a  rolling  moor  country 
and  distant  mountains,  the  sight  of  which 
was  strange  to  them ;  but  house  of  any 
kind  there  was  none. 

When  their  eager  gaze,  sweeping  all 
the  prospect,  had  made  certain  that  no 
habitation  was  to  be  seen,  Dickon  groaned 
deeply,  and  little  Andreas  wept  outright. 

As   they   stood   thus,    Andreas    clenched 

his   hands    at   his    breast,    lifting   his   white 

face     upward     toward     the     bare     boughs. 

Then   he    closed    his    eyes,    and    staggering 

279 


28o     How  Dickon  came  by  his  Name. 

a  single  step,  fell  forward  to  the  ground, 
and  lay  there  on  his  face  like  a  log. 

Dickon  lifted  his  comrade  in  his  arms, 
and  bore  him  back  into  the  thicket.  Out 
in  the  open  where  the  two  youths  had 
viewed  the  highroad  the  earth  was  frozen 
stiff,  and  snow  lay  thin-spread  upon  it ; 
but  behind  them,  on  the  path  they  had 
made,  lay  warmer  nooks  sheltered  by  tan- 
gled shrubs. 

To  the  first  of  these  Dickon  pushed 
his  way,  and  putting  the  lad  softly  down, 
began  gathering  dry,  dead  leaves  by  arm- 
fuls  and  piling  them  over  the  senseless 
body.  On  these  he  laid  branches,  and 
then  again  more  leaves,  until  only  the 
boyish,  sleeping  face  met  the  air. 

Now  he  made  another  journey  to  the 
outer  place  which  they  had  won,  and 
gleaning  from  the  ground  the  three  things 
he  had  left  there,  brought  them  back  to 
where  the  lad  lay  under  his  leaves,  and 
put  them  down  beside  him.  These  were 
the    crossbow,  the    book   in   its    casket,  and 


A  Strange  Christmas  Eve.         281 

the  mangled  carcass  of  a  boar  which  he 
had  killed,  but  had  eaten  of  more  to  his 
harm  than  good,  since  there  was  no  fire 
with  which  to  cook  the  meat. 

Dickon  looked  down  to  his  friend,  and 
saw  that  the  boy  was  awake,  and  sick  unto 
death.  Cold  and  hunger  and  the  toil  of 
wild  wandering  had  dealt  harshly  with 
even  Dickon's  own  tough  English  flesh 
and  blood.  They  were  killing  the  fragile 
lad  from  foreign  parts. 

"  Do  you  get  warmth  ? "  he  asked  dole- 
fully, as  he  had  asked  scores  of  other 
times. 

For  answer  the  lad  closed  his  eyes  and 
shook  his  head  in  weakness. 

Then  Dickon  knelt  down  and  did  a 
thins:  strangle  to  all  his  knowledo^e  of  cus- 
toms.  He  kissed  the  pale  forehead  which 
lay  half-hid  among  the  leaves.  Then,  as 
if  in  shame,  he  sprang  to  his  feet. 

"  Bide  you  here  till  I  come,"  he  said, 
and  turning,  strode  off  toward  the  open, 
with  the  crossbow  under  his  arm. 


282     How  Dickon  came  by  his  Name. 

For  warmth's  sake  and  the  peril  which 
brooded  behind  him,  he  swung  himself 
forward  at  a  swift  pace  down  the  high- 
road. The  air  and  the  movement  kindled 
his  blood  a  little. 

A  full  league  it  seemed  to  him  he  must 
have  tramped,  over  barren  moorland  and 
through  winding  defiles  with  steep,  un- 
friendly sides  of  bare  rock,  before  he  came 
to  anything  that  spoke  of  human  habita- 
tion. Then,  as  the  skies  were  darkening 
into  twilight,  he  entered  unawares  into 
the  deeper  shadows  of  a  great  wall,  gray 
and  forbidding,  rising  above  the  highway 
like  a  part  of  the  boulders  themselves. 

At,  the  base  of  this,  as  if  entering  upon 
the  heart  of  the  earth,  was  a  small,  black 
door  of  wood,  framed  in  frowning  stone. 

On  this  door  of  the  monastery  Dickon 
pounded  with  his  fists,  and  with  the  han- 
dle of  his  weapon,  and  presently  there 
came  a  sound  as  of  bolts  withdrawn.  The 
door  opened  half-way,  and  a  chalk-faced 
young  friar  in  white  gown  and  hood  stood 
before  him. 


A  Strange  Christmas  Eve.         283 

"  Enter,"  this  spectral  figure  said,  and 
trembled  with  the  cold. 

"  Nay,  fire  is  what  I  seek,"  stammered 
Dickon,  almost  in  fright  at  the  ghost-like 
form  before  him,  and  at  the  strange  sound 
of  a  tinkling  bell  echoing  from  the  rocks 
overhead. 

"  Canst  not  wait  till  thou  art  dead  for 
that .? "  the  white-robed  phantom  said,  in 
tones  of  earthly  vexation.  He  would  have 
shut  the  door  at  this,  but  that  Dickon 
sprang  forward,  thrust  his  bow  against  the 
inner  frame,  and  clutched  the  friar  by  the 
arm. 

"  Fire !  fire  ! "  he  cried.  "  Give  me  that 
to  kindle  fire,  or  I  kill  you  —  like  the 
others ! " 

The  monk  stood  stock-still,  and  curled 
the  thin  corners  of  his  lips  in  scorn  at  this 
rude  boy,  and  held  him  with  his  bright, 
sneering  gaze.  Dickon  looked  into  these 
sharp,  cold  eyes,  and  felt  himself  a  noisy 
fool. 

"  Nay,  father,"  he  stumbled  on,  pleadingly, 
"  if  I  get  not  a  fire,  he  dies ! " 


284     How  Dickon  came  by  his  Name. 

"  Hast  thy  head  full  of  dead  men,  seem- 
ingly," the  young  Cistercian  replied. 

He  cast  his  glance  down  over  this  rough 
visitor,  and  noting  the  blood-splashes  upon 
his  hose,  lifted  his  brows  in  wrathful  in- 
quiry. Then  he  snatched  up  the  crucifix 
from  the  end  of  the  chain  at  his  girdle, 
and  thrust  it  swiftly  into  Dickon's  face. 

"  Who  art  thou,  churl }  "  he  demanded. 
"Whose  blood  is  this?" 

Dickon's  nerve  sank  into  his  shoes. 

"  A  boar  that  I  have  slain,  good  father," 
he  answered  in  a  mumbling  whimper,  "and 
lack  fire  wherewith  to  roast  it;  and  the 
raw  flesh  is  ill  food,  and  he  can  eat  naught 
of  it,  and  gets  no  warmth,  and  must  die  if 
I  win  not  a  fire." 

At  this  the  monk  softened.  He  led 
Dickon  into  the  outer  porch,  and  gleaned 
the  purport  of  his  story.  Only  Dickon 
said  nothings  of  the  book  or  of  the  two 
men  he  had  killed. 

"  Fire  thou  shalt  have,"  the  young  monk 
said,  more  kindly,  when   Dickon's  tale  was 


Whose  Blood  is  Ihis?" 


A  Strange  Christmas  Eve.         287 

finished.  "  But  first  go  through  the  gates 
before  thee  to  the  hall,  and  take  all  thou 
wilt  of  meat  and  ale.  None  will  deny 
thee.  'Tis  the  eve  of  holy  Christmas,  and 
though  we  fast,  thou  and  thy  kind  may 
feed  in  welcome." 

"  It  is  only  fire  I  seek,"  said  Dickon, 
doggedly,  though  all  his  vitals  clamored  in 
revolt  against  the  speech.  "  Food  I  will 
none  till  he  hath  supped." 

"  So  be  it,"  said  the  monk,  and  left 
Dickon  alone  under  the  groined  archway 
in  the  growing  darkness. 

Presently  he  came  again,  and  put  flint  and 
steel  and  tinder  into  the  lad's  hand.  He  gave 
him  also  a  leathern  bottle  stopped  with  wax 
and  a  little  cheese  wrapped  in  fine  straw. 

"  Bear  these  along,"  he  said.  "  It  is  the 
Christmas  eve.  Peace  be  with  you,"  and 
so  motioned  the  boy  away. 

Dickon's  tongue  was  not  used  to  words 
of  thanks,  and  he  had  turned  in  silence  to 
go  out  when  the  monk  called  to  him,  and 
then  came  forward  to  the  outer  door. 


288     How  Dickon  came  by  his  Name. 

"You  were  to  kill  me  —  like  'the  others,'" 
he  said,  with  a  grim  smile  curling  his  lips. 
"What  others?" 

"  Two  of  Sir  Watty's  men,  whom  I 
smote  down  as  they  would  have  fallen 
upon  him',''  said  Dickon,  pride  struggling 
with  apprehension. 

The  monk  smiled  at  this  outright,  and 
departing  again  abruptly,  returned  with  a 
pasty  in  a  dish,  enfolded  in  cloths. 

"  Now  God  be  with  vou ! "  he  said, 
heartily.  "  Hither  bring  your  strange  gos- 
sip on  the  morrow,  if  he  find  his  legs." 

Once  outside  the  rock-girt  postern, 
Dickon  set  to  running,  his  arms  full  with 
the  burden  of  the  friar's  gifts,  and  his 
heart  all  aglow  with  joy.  It  was  a  weari- 
some enough  ascent,  and  the  darkness  of 
even  was  drawing  ever  closer  over  the 
earth,  and  the  lad's  empty  stomach  cried 
aloud  at  every  furlong  for  food ;  but  still 
he  pressed  on. 

When  at  last  he  had  gained  the  point 
on  the  road  whence  his  quest   had    begun, 


A  Strange  Christmas  Eve.  289 

the  light  had  altogether  failed.  Then  only- 
he  struck  his  flint,  and  set  fire  to  some 
leaves.  From  these  he  kindled  a  knot  of 
dry  branches,  and  with  this  for  a  torch 
pushed  his  way  into  the  woods. 

"  Andreas,"  he  called  out,  when  at  last 
he  stood  above  his  friend,  "  here  is  fire 
and  food  !  " 

The  white  face  among  the  leaves  was 
the  color  of  the  snow  he  had  left  behind 
him.  The  eyes  were  half-open,  but  no 
answering  light  came  into  them.  The  boy 
lay  as  if  dead. 

With  a  startled  cry  Dickon  let  fall  his 
spoils,  and  dropping  to  his  knees,  lifted 
the  other's  head  up  against  his  waist.  It 
twisted  inertly  upon  the  thin  neck  and 
hung  forward.     Was  life  truly  gone .? 

Like  one  in  a  daze,  Dickon  laid  the  boy 
down  again  among  the  leaves,  and  rose  to 
his  feet,  still  holding  the  burning  sticks  in 
his  hand.  The  flames  came  painfully  near 
to  his  flesh  before  he  started  into  sense 
again. 


290     How  Dicko7i  came  by  his  Name. 

Then  he  swiftly  built  a  fire  in  a  cleft 
among  the  rocks  at  the  end  of  the  little 
hollow,  piling  dry  wood  and  leaves  upon 
it  till  the  blaze  lighted  up  everything 
about.  This  done,  he  knocked  off  the 
waxen  cover  of  his  leather  bottle,  cut  out 
the  stopper,  and  kneeling  once  more,  put 
its  mouth  to  the  dying  lad's  lips. 

Strange  tears  came  into  his  eyes  as,  after 
only  a  brief  moment,  those  of  his  friend 
opened  in  truth,  and  gazed  wonderingly 
upward  at  the  luminous  volume  of  ascend- 
ing smoke.  Then  the  slight  frame  shud- 
dered piteously  with  a  recuTring  chill,  and 
the  dread  sleep  fell  upon  it  once  more. 

Dickon  dragged  him  to  the  fire,  piling 
leaves  behind  for  support,  and  holding  the 
lad's  hands  almost  into  the  flames,  so  des- 
perate did  the  strait  seem  to  be.  Then  he 
stripped  off  his  own  leathern  jacket,  and 
wrapped  it  about  Andreas. 

He  heaped  fresh  fuel  on  the  fire,  he 
rubbed  the  slender  limbs  for  warmth  with 
his   rough   hands,    he   forced    more    of    the 


A  Strange  Christmas  Eve.  291 

wine-drink  down  the  boy's  throat  —  all  at 
once,  as  it  were,  in  a  frenzy  of  resolve  that 
death  should  at  all  hazards  be  fought  off. 

And  so  it  came  about,  for  presently 
Andreas  was  sitting  propped  up  upon  the 
mound  of  leaves,  smiling  faintly  with  pleas- 
ure at  the  new  warmth  in  his  veins,  and 
sucking  bare  the  last  bird-bones  from  the 
pie. 

Dickon  gnawed  ravenously  upon  the 
smoky  and  half-cooked  piece  of-  tough 
meat  he  had  cut  from  the  ham  of  the  boar, 
and  watched  the  sweet  spectacle  of  his 
friend  restored  to  life,  in  an  abstraction 
of   dumb   joy. 

Andreas  lifted  his  hand  in  air,  and  uttered 
an  exclamation  of  surprise. 

"  It  is  Christmas  eve !  "  he  said.  "  I  had 
forgotten !  " 

"  So  said  the  friar,"  Dickon  mumbled 
between  mouthfuls,  tearing  at  the  food 
meanwhile  with  his  teeth.  "  He  was  in 
two  minds  about  having  me  flogged,  but 
for  that.     The   monks   have    a  fear   of   the 


292     How  Dickon  came  by  his  Name. 

king,  they  say,  and  on  the  days  he  marks 
for  them  durst  not  break  bread  for  them- 
selves. Thus  this  friar  must  needs  fast 
to-day  —  so  he  said.  How  could  the  king 
know,  if  he  slipped  in  some  food  while- 
times  }  He  hath  not  been  in  these  parts 
this  many  years." 

"  It  is  not  the  king,  Dickon,"  answered 
Andreas.  "  A  greater  than  any  king  order- 
eth  these  matters." 

"  Aye,  the  lord  of  Warwick,"  said  Dickon. 
"  My  father  rode  with  him,  in  far  countries, 
when  he  was  lusty.  But  the  king  slew  him 
years  agone,  in  a  battle  by  London  town. 
Wist  you  not  that.?" 

"  Tut,  tut,"  the  lad  in  ragged  velvet 
made  reply,  smiling  at  first,  and  then 
more  gravely.  "  Your  Warwick  is  dust 
and  bones,  as  every  man  shall  be,  the  king 
not  less  than  the  meanest  knave.  But  God 
does  not  die,  and   He  ruleth  all  things." 

"  Sir  Watty  swore  ever  by  Him,"  said 
Dickon.  "  But  He  hath  not  once  set  foot 
in  Shropshire,  in  my  time." 


A  Strange  Christinas  Eve.         293 

Andreas  lifted  himself  at  this,  with  eyes 
marvelling  at  such  ignorance. 

"  Oh,  Dickon  lad,  thou  hast  the  very- 
mother's  milk  of  learning  to  find  thy  way 
to,"  he  cried,  and  crossed  his  knees  by  the 
ruddy  blaze,  tailor-fashion,  to  begin. 

The  stoiy  that  he  told  to  Dickon  was 
such  a  one  as  never  Christian  child  in 
these  times  needs  to  hear,  but  rather  draws 
in  from  every  source,  unconsciously,  like 
speech  and  the  shapings  of  thought.  But 
to  Dickon  it  was  brand  new,  since  at  Egs- 
with  no  godly  man  had  ever  shown  his 
face.  He  listened  to  it  all  with  open 
mouth  and  brain. 

As  for  Andreas,  he  grew  presently  con- 
scious of  fatigue,  and  lay  back  upon  his 
couch  of  leaves  as  his  narrative  unfolded. 
Then,  the  instant  spur  of  food  and 
warmth  becoming  spent,  his  voice  grew 
fainter,  and  in  the  returning  weakness  his 
thoughts  wandered  from  the  thread  of  the 
sublime  story  to  tender  memories  of  how 
it  had  been  illumined  and  decked  out  in 
his  old  German  home. 


294     How  Dickon  came  by  his  Name. 

"  Ach,  lieber  Tannenbaum ! "  he  mur- 
mured, with  the  firehght  in  his  dreamy- 
eyes.  "  It  was  a  sight  to  live  for,  Dickon 
—  the  beautiful  fir  tree  before  you,  with 
burning  candles  fastened  in  among  the 
branches,  and  Christmas  gifts  hanging 
underneath,  —  every  little  minute  some- 
thing new  you  found, — and  father,  mother, 
brothers,  sisters,  all  in  the  happy  ring 
around  the  tree,  with  joyful  songs  and 
good  wishes  —  woe  !  woe  !  I  shall  never 
see  it  again  ! " 

"That  thou  shalt,  and  hundreds  of 
them,"  said  Dickon,  cheerily. 

But  Andreas  shook  his  head  in  sadness, 
and  gazed  into  the  crackling  blaze  as 
though  it  were  a  tomb. 

"  Old  Geraldus  and  I  would  have  had  a 
tree,"  he  sighed  at  last.  "  Each  year  since 
we  came  out  from  Augsburg  we  made  us 
one,  and  sang  the  dear  old  German  songs, 
and  gave  each  other  gifts.  And  this  year 
we  were  both  to  give  this  goodly  '  Troilus ' 
to  Sir  John  —  and  lo !  they   are  both  mur- 


A  Strange  Christmas  Eve.  295 

dered,  dead,  and  I  am  following  them, 
close  at  their  heels  —  and  '  Troilus  '  will 
come  to  naught.  And  never  had  more 
cunning  and  shapely  work  been  done,  not 
even  in  Augsburg  !  " 

"Is  it  far  —  that  'Owg'  —  what  name 
do  you  call  it?"  asked  Dickon.  "As  far 
as   London  tov/n  ?  " 

The  lad  smiled  faintly  from  where  he 
lay.  "  It  is  across  the  sea,  and  many  days' 
journey  still." 

"And  does  the  king  come  there  oftener 
than  into  Shropshire  t  " 

"  Dull  boy !  There  your  king  durst 
never  come.  It  is  not  his  country.  There 
is  an  emperor,  and  then  a  Wittelsbach 
Duke,  but  even  these  may  not  come  into 
Augsburg  if  the  burghers  say  them  nay. 
The  tongue  is  different  there  from  yours, 
and  so,  glory  be  to  the  saints,  are  the 
manners,  too.  There  learning  flourishes, 
and  men  are  gentle,  and  books  like  poor 
Troilus  yonder  are  monthly  made  by 
dozens." 


296     How  Dickon  came  by  his  Name. 

"  Wherefore  came  you  hither,  then  ? " 
queried  Dickon,  with  rude  islander  logic. 

"  It  was  the  madness  in  my  master's 
head.  He  deemed  that  here  he  should  be 
welcome,  bringing  a  new  craft  to  make 
knowledge  common.  But  these  be  beasts 
here  in  Shropshire,  not  men.  They  desire 
not  books,  but  only  blood  and  battle  and 
red  meat." 

"  Men  come  by  knowledge  to  their  hurt," 
said  Dickon.  "  There  was  a  clerk  turned 
thief  in  Egswith  with  Sir  Watty,  and  he 
was  skilled  to  fashion  marks  on  paper 
so  wise  men  mio^ht  know  their  meanino-  — 

O  O 

and  him  they  hanged  at  Rednal  for  a  rogue 
four  winters  syne." 

"  For  that  he  was  a  robber,  and  no  true 
clerk,"  retorted  Andreas. 

Dickon  looked  into  the  fire  for  answer, 
and  then  at  the  black,  starless  sky  over- 
head. He  rose,  and  busied  himself  for  a 
time  in  gathering  fresh  fuel,  and  then  in 
roughly  wattling  some  side  shelter  at  the 
back  of  the   bed   of   leaves.     Some  vagrant 


A   Strange  Christmas  Eve.  297 

flakes  of  snow  sifted  through  the  branches 
above,  and  he  reflected  upon  the  chances 
of  making  a  roof  on  the  morrow.  Or 
doubtless  it  would  be  better  to  go  farther 
back,  and  build  more  securely  there. 

He  put  the  question  to  Andreas  by  way 
of  talk,  restoring  the  fire  meanwhile.  The 
German  boy  smiled  in  wonder. 

"  Why,  on  the  morrow,  if  strength  comes 
back  to  me,  hie  we  to  the  good  white  friars. 
They  bade  you  come,  and  me,  too !  " 

Dickon's  face  clouded  over. 

"  Nay,  I'm  for  the  greenwood,"  he  said 
stubbornly.  "  I  will  wear  no  man's  collar 
more,  nor  sleep  under  roof.  To  be  free, 
here  in  the  open,  it  maketh  a  new  man  of 
me.  And  so,  an  you  leave  me,  here  I  abide 
alone,  or  in  these  parts." 

"  How  should  I  leave  thee,  Dickon } " 
said  the  other,  softly.  "That  could  not 
be.  But  freedom  lies  not  alone  out  under 
the  skies,  in  wind  and  cold.  Was  any 
other  more  free  than  I,  with  my  old  master } 
Come,  thou  shalt  be  ruled  by  me  —  and  we 


298     How  Dickon  came  by  his  Name. 

will  make  our  way  out  from  these  ruffian 
parts  together,  and  somewhere  we  shall 
light  upon  a  gentle  patron,  and  there  I 
will  carve  new  types  and  build  a  press, 
and  thy  stout  arms  shall  turn  the  screw, 
and  I  will  teach  thee  learning,  and  —  " 

He  broke  off  all  at  once,  and  gazed  wist- 
fully upward  at  the  mounting  volume  of 
smoke  and  snapping  sparks  for  a  long 
time  in  silence.  Dickon  looked  on  him, 
speechless  but  with  great  things  dawning 
confusedly  in  his  head. 


CHAPTER    IV. 

UP    IN    THE    WORLD. 

OAVE  the  crackling  of  flame,  and  the 
small  sound  of  branches  overhead  that 
were  swayed  a  little  by  the  draught  from 
the  fire  on  the  forest  floor,  Dickon  heard 
nothing  while  he  waited  for  Andreas  to 
finish  the  matter  of  which  he  had  been 
speaking. 

For  the  rude  smithy-bred  boy  there  was 
little  meaning  in  the  other's  promise  to 
teach  him  learning.  No  more  meaning  was 
there  for  Dickon  in  the  young  scholar's 
craving  for  types  and  a  press  to  begin  print- 
ing anew. 

But  the  promise  that  Andreas  would  not 
part  from  him  lingered  in  Dickon's  ears, 
and  uplifted  his  heart  as  he  waited  rev- 
erentially to  hear  again  the  gentle,  con- 
299 


300     How  Dickon  came  by  Jiis  Name. 

vinced,  and  loving  accents  of  the  German 
youth. 

At  last  Andreas  spoke  —  as  if  he  had 
not  paused,  and  yet  with  a  strange  new 
wailing  weakness  in  his  voice  :  — 

"  And  if  the  saints  willed,  thus  might 
we  win  our  way  back  to  Augsburg.  But 
that  may  never  be,  for  I  shall  die  here,  here 
where  I  lie,  and  thou  wilt  turn  to  wild 
beast  or  robber  when  I  am  gone,  and  brave, 
goodly  Augsburg  will  press  on,  leading  all 
men,  with  never  a  thought  of  poor  little 
me,  dead  here  in  the  forest." 

Dickon  would  have  spoken  in  homely 
protest,  but  the  change  on  his  friend's  face 
scared  him  to  dumbness.  Not  even  the 
flame-light  could  make  it  ruddy  now.  In 
the  eyes  there  was  a  dimmed,  far-away  look 
which  chilled  Dickon's  blood. 

"  Aye,  when  I  lie  forgotten  here,"  —  the 
thin,  saddened  voice  went  on  in  increasing 
slowness,  —  "  there  the  old  gray  walls  and 
tiled  gables  will  be,  with  the  storks  making 
their  nests  in  the  spring,  and   the   convent 


up  in  the   World.  301 

boys  singing  at  daybreak  in  the  streets, 
and  the  good  housewives  stopping  in  the 
market-place  on  their  way  home  from  mass, 
and  the  smell  of  new  grass  and  blossoms 
in  the  air  .  .  .  and  when  Christmas  comes 
I  shall  not  know  it  .  .  .  these  eyes  shall  not 
look  again  on  the  Tannenbaum.    Woe !  woe ! " 

"  Is  that  the  tree  ?  "  asked  Dickon,  some 
impulse  to  words  and  action  stirring  vaguely 
in  his  frightened  heart. 

"  Aye,"  groaned  Andreas,  "  the  beautiful 
tree  with  candles  blazins^  on  its  branches 
and  shining  gifts."  He  followed  on  in  a 
weak  murmuring  of  foreign  words,  seem- 
ingly without  meaning. 

Dickon  bent  one  intent,  long  glance 
upon  this  childish,  waxen  face  before  him. 
Then  he  plucked  a  burning  bough  from 
the  fire,  and  without  a  word  pushed  the 
bushes  aside  and  plunged  into  the  outer 
darkness  of  the  forest. 

After  some  time  he  returned,  bearing 
an  armful  of  rushes.  He  warmed  himself 
for   a   moment,    and    then,    seated    so    that 


302     How  Dickon  came  by  his  Name. 

Andreas  might  not  observe  his  work,  began 
with  his  knife  to  cut  these  down  into 
lengths  of  a  span,  and  to  strip  off  all  but 
a  winding  rim  of  their  outer  cover. 

Then  he  hacked  with  his  knife  into  the 
frozen  boar's  carcass.  Cutting  out  portions 
of  white,  hard  fat,  he  melted  these  a  little 
at  the  fire,  and  then  rolled  them  thinly 
between  his  palms  about  the  trimmed 
rushes.  This  done,  he  flayed  off  a  part 
of  the  boar's  skin,  scorched  off  the  bristles, 
rubbed  it  all  with  ashes,  and  spreading 
it  over  his  sallet,  sliced  it  into  a  rude 
semblance  of  fine  thongs. 

Then,  still  uttering  no  word,  he  was  gone 
again,  once  more  bearing  with  him  a  lighted 
torch. 

In  front  of  Andreas,  but  to  one  side,  as 
he  lay  in  half  trance  and  utter  faintness 
watching  the  smoke,  there  rose  at  two 
rods'  distance  the  dark  outline  of  a  lir 
tree,  the  lower  parts  of  which  were  hidden 
by  shrubs. 

Suddenly  the  sick  boy's  gaze  was  diverted 


\ 


Up  in  the   World.  303 

to  the  dim  black  cone  of  this  tree,  where 
a  reddish  radiance  seemed  spreading  up- 
ward from  the  tangle  underneath.  Then 
a  sparkling  spot  of  white  light  made  itself 
visible  high  up  among  the  dusky  branches 
—  then  another  —  and  another.  At  last 
nearly  a  dozen  there  were,  all  brightly 
glowing  like  stars  brought  near. 

Andreas  gazed  in  languid  marvelling  at 
the  development  of  this  strange  thing  — 
as  one  quietly  contemplates  miracles  in 
sleep.  It  seemed  but  a  natural  part  of  his 
dying  vision  of  Augsburg  —  the  Tannen- 
baum  making  itself  weirdly  real  before  his 
fading  sight. 

The  rosy  smoke  parted  to  shape  a  frame 
for  this  mystic  picture  in  its  centre,  and 
Andreas  saw  it  all  —  the  twinkling  lights, 
the  deep-shadowed  lines  of  boughs,  the 
engirdling  wreaths  of  fiery  vapor  —  as  a 
part  of  the  dreamland  whose  threshold  he 
stood  upon.  And  his  heart  sang  softly 
within  him  at  the  sight. 

Then    all    at    once    he    awoke    from    the 


304     How  Dicko7i  came  by  his  Name. 

dream ;  for  Dickon  was  standing  over  him, 
flushed  with  a  rude  satisfaction  in  his 
work,  and  saying  :  — 

"  Gifts  had  I  none  to  hang,  Andreas, 
save  it  were  the  bottle  and  what  is  left  of 
the  cheese.  Look  your  fill  at  it,  for  boar's 
fat  never  yet  was  tallow,  and  the  rushes 
are  short-lived." 

The  dream  mists  cleared  from  the  Ger- 
man boy's  brain. 

"  Oh,  it  is  thine  ! "  he  faintly  murmured, 
in  reviving  comprehension.  "  Thou  hast 
made  it  —  for  me  !  " 

Dickon  glanced  out  to  where,  in  his  eyes, 
some  sorry  dips  guttered  for  a  brief  space 
on  a  tree-top.  More  than  one  of  the  lights 
was  already  flickering  to  collapse  in  the 
breeze. 

"You  said  you  never  would  see  one 
again,"  he  urged  triumphantly.  "  Belike 
your  speech  about  dying  was  no  whit  truer." 

Andreas  had  no  further  words,  but  lifted 
his  hand  weakly  upward,  and  Dickon  knelt 
down  and  took  it  in  his  own  hard  palms. 


I 


I 


up  in  the   World.  305 

Thus  the  two  boys  kept  silence  for  a 
period  —  silence  which  spoke  many  things 
to  both  —  and  looked  at  the  little  rush-dips 
fluttering  on  the  boughs  against  the  cur- 
tain of  black  night. 

Of  a  sudden,  the  stillness  which  had  ten- 
derly enwrapped  them  was  roughly  broken. 
If  there  had  been  warning  sounds,  the  lads 
had  missed  them  —  for  their  hearts  almost 
stopped  beating  with  the  shock  that  now 
befell. 

A  violent  crushing  of  the  bushes,  a 
chance  clank  of  metal  —  and  two  fierce- 
faced  bowmen  in  half-armor  stood  in  the 
firelight  before  their  frightened  gaze. 

"Stir  not  —  on  your  lives!"  cried  one 
of  these  strange  intruders,  with  the  cold 
menace  of  a  pole-axe  in  his  mailed  hand. 
"  What  mummery  is  this  ?  " 

Somehow  it  dawned  upon  Dickon's  con- 
sciousness that  these  warlike  men,  for  all 
their  terrifying  mien,  were  as  much  fright- 
ened in  their  way  as  he  was.  This  per- 
ception    came    doubtless    from    the    lessons 


3o6     How  Dickon  came  by  his  Name. 

of  a  life  spent  with  bold  soldiers  who  yet 
trembled  at  sight  of  a  will  o'  the  wisp. 
He  kept  his  jaw  from  knocking  together 
with  an  effort,  and  asked  as  if  at  his  ease: 

"  What  mean  you,  good  sir  ?  No  mum- 
mery is  here." 

"  There  !  there  !  "  shouted  the  other  man- 
at-arms,  pointing  with  his  spear  to  where 
the  rush-lights  —  or  what  remained  of  them 
—  twinkled  fitfully  in  the  tree. 

"  Oh,  that,"  said  Dickon,  with  noncha- 
lance. "  It  is  a  trick  of  foreign  parts,  made 
by  me  to  gladden  the  heart  of  this  poor 
lad,  my  master,  who  lies  here  sore  stricken 
with  sickness.  Wist  you  not  it  is  Christ- 
mas ?  This  is  our  Tonnybow,  meet  for 
such  a   time." 

The  two  men  looked  sharply  at  the 
boys,  and  then,  after  a  murmured  consulta- 
tion, one  turned  on  his  heel  and  disap- 
peared. The  other,  espying  the  leathern 
bottle,  grew  friendlier,  and  lifted  it  to  his 
lips  by  an  undivided  motion  from  the 
ground.     Then   he  said,   drawing  nearer   to 


up  in  the   World.  307 

the  blaze  and  heaving  a  long,  comforted 
breath :  — 

"  Whose  man  art  thou  ?  " 

"  This  is  my  master,"  replied  Dickon, 
with  his  thumb  toward  Andreas,  "  who  was 
most  foully  beset  by  robbers,  and  is  like 
now  to  die  if  he  win  not  help  and  shelter." 

"  That  shall  be  as  my  lord  duke  willeth," 
said  the  soldier. 

As  he  spoke,  the  sound  of  more  clanking 
armor  fell  upon  the  air.  In  a  moment  a 
half-dozen  mailed  men  stood  at  the  entrance 
to  the  copse,  gazing  in  with  curious  glances. 

Behind  them  were  men  with  flaring 
torches,  and  in  their  front  was  the  stately 
figure  of  a  young  knight,  tall  and  proudly 
poised.  A  red  cloak  and  fur  tippet  were 
cast  over  his  shining  corselet. 

This  young  man  had  a  broad  brow  under 
his  hanging  hair,  and  grave,  piercing  eyes, 
which  passed  over  Dickon  as  mere  clay,  and 
fastened  a  shrewd  gaze  on  the  lad  in  velvet. 

"  It  is  the  German  gift-tree,"  he  said  to 
those  behind  him,  whom  Dickon  saw  now  to 


3o8     How  Dickon  came  by  his  Name. 

be  gentles  and  no  common  soldiers.  "  I 
have  heard  oft  of  this,  but  looked  not  to  see 
it  first  in  Shropshire.  What  do  you  here.^*  " 
he  asked  at  Dickon,  rather  than  of  him,  and 
with  such  a  flash  of  sharp,  commanding  eyes 
that  the  lad's  tongue  thickened,  and  he  could 
make  no  answer. 

Andreas  it  was  who  spoke,  when  words 
failed  Dickon,  in  a  voice  firmer  than  before, 
and  lifting  himself  on  his  elbow. 

"  He  saved  my  life,  my  lord,"  he  said. 
"  And  I  am  dying,  I  think,  and  this  tree  the 
good  fellow  tricked  out  to  please  my  sick 
fancy.  And  I  pray  you,  for  a  dead  lad's 
sake,  have  a  care  for  him  when  I  am  gone." 

The  knight,  with  the  promise  of  a  smile 
on  his  straight  lips,  looked  from  eager, 
fragile  Andreas  to  burly,  hang-dog  Dickon, 
and  back  again. 

"  Art  from  the  German  countries }  "  he 
asked.  "  And  how  here,  of  all  spots  under 
the  sky?" 

"  I  am  Andreas  Mayer,  from  Augsburg," 
said  the  lad,  "driven  hence  by  robbers  from 


up  in  the   World.  309 

the  house  of  Sir  John  Camber,  who  was 
slain  along  with  my  good  master,  Geraldus 
Hansenius." 

The  young  knight  took  a'  hasty  step  for- 
ward, and  peered  down  upon  the  lad. 

"  Geraldus  of  the  types  and  press  —  the 
printer  ? "  he  asked  hurriedly.  "  And  thou 
art  skilled  in  his  craft  t " 

"  This  is  even  more  my  handiwork  than 
his,"  replied  Andreas,  with  a  boy's  pride, 
reaching  out  for  the  casket  containing  his 
beloved  "  Troilus." 

Dickon  undid  the  cover,  and  handed  out 
the  volume  to  the  young  noble,  who  took 
it  with  a  swift  gesture,  and  turned  over 
here  and  there  a  page,  bending  the  book  to 
the  firelight  and  uttering  exclamations  of 
delight.  Suddenly  he  closed  the  book,  and 
gave  it  back  to  Dickon  to  replace  in  the 
casket. 

"  I  thank  thee.  Sir  Francis,"  he  said  to 
one  of  those  behind  him.  "  But  for  thy 
wonder  at  the  lights  in  yon  tree,  we  had 
passed  this  treasure  by.     Ho  there,  Poynterl 


3IO     How  Dickon  came  by  his  Name. 

Fashion  me  a  litter  on  the  moment,  and  we 
will  bear  this  lad  onward  to  the  abbey  as 
we  go.  Let  some  one  ride  on  to  say  I  am 
belated ;  hasten  the  others." 

Then  he  took  the  precious  volume  from 
its  casket  once  more,  and  mused  upon  its 
pages  again,  and  spoke  of  them  to  the 
gentlemen  closest  behind  him.  Again  and 
again  he  put  pointed  questions  to  young 
Andreas  upon  the  method  of  their  making. 

"  Thou  hast  heard  of  Master  Caxton }  " 
he  asked  the  German   boy. 

"  Aye,  he  of  Bruges,  and  I  have  seen  his 
work.     Geraldus  did  as  fair." 

"  Thou  shalt  help  Caxton,  then,  to  do 
fairer  still.  He  is  of  Bruges  no  longer, 
saints  be  praised,  but  practises  his  good 
craft  in  his  own  native  England  now  this 
two  months  syne  at  my  own  house  in  West- 
minster ;  and  he  will  fall  upon  thy  neck  in 
joy  when   I   do  bring  thee  to  him." 

The  boy's  eyes  sparkled  with  elation. 
Forgetting  his  weakness,  he  sat  upright. 

"  I  would  not  be  over-bold,"  he  said,  "  but 


up  in  the   World.  311 

with  these  mine  hands  have  I  held  proofs 
for  the  Emperor  to  read  from,  and  there  is 
none  of  higher  state  in  this  thy  island  of  a 
surety.     Art  thou  the  duke  of  these  parts?" 

"  Rather  a  duke  who  fain  would  be  of  all 
parts,"  the  young  knight  answered,  and 
then  smiled  to  note  that  the  quip  was  lost 
upon  the  foreign  lad.  He  made  a  little 
movement  of  his  hand  to  signify  that  he 
would  be  no  longer  unknown,  and  one  of 
the  others  informed   the  questioner. 

"It  is  his  Grace  of  Gloster  —  our  good 
King's  brother  —  who  honors  you  with  his 
princely  favor." 

Some  archers  bore  in  a  bed  of  boughs  at 
this,  over  which  the  Prince,  still  smiling, 
spread  his  own  red  cloak,  jewelled  collar  and 
all.  To  another  he  gave  the  casket  with  the 
book. 

"  I  keep  my  Christmas  at  the  house  of 
holy  St.  Bernard,  down  the  valley,"  he  said, 
as  the  men  lifted  Andreas  gently  into  the 
litter,  and  folded  the  royal  robe  about  his 
slender  form.    "  Sobeit  thou  gainest  strength 


312     How  Dickon  came  by  his  Name. 

there,  in  warm  bed  and  cheerful  care,  shalt 
ride  to  London  with  me." 

So,  as  he  turned  upon  his  heel,  the  torch- 
bearers  spread  themselves  forth  to  light  his 
way ;  and  after  him,  with  much  rattling  of 
iron,  arms  and  armor,  the  knights  and  the 
men  with  the  litter  pushed  their  way. 

Dickon  stood  by  the  declining  fire,  awed 
and  struck  dumb  with  what  had  come  to 
pass.  The  brother  of  the  King!  They 
were  bearing  Andreas  away,  and  he  was  left 
under  the  black  winter  sky  with  his  cross- 
bow and  frozen  boar  and  empty  bottle,  deso- 
late and  alone. 

He  stared  stupidly  at  the  dancing  torch- 
lights on  the  armor  of  the  passing  group, 
with  a  dull  ache  in  his  breast. 

Then  suddenly  he  heard  the  shrill  voice 
of  Andreas  crying,  "Dickon!     My  Dickon!" 

Dickon  ran  headlong  forward,  and  stood 
boldly  beside  the  litter,  which  for  the  mo- 
ment was  halted  in  its  progress.  When  the 
Prince  turned  to  look  back,  the  smith's  son 
faced  even  this  mighty  glance  upright,  and 


I 


up  in  the   World.  313 

with  his  chin  in  the  air.  If  the  wrath  of 
kings'  brothers  killed,  then  he  would  at  least 
die  beside  Andreas. 

"What  to-do  is  this.'*"  Richard  of  Gloster 
asked,  with  a  bending  of  his  brows  upon  the 
peasant  lad. 

The  Prince  had  stopped,  and  with  him  all 
his  cortege.  Above  him  flickered  in  its  final 
stage  the  last  of  the  rush-lights  on  the  tree. 
Now  that  he  stood  cloakless,  one  of  his 
shoulders  was  revealed  higher  than  the 
other. 

"  He  saved  my  poor  life,  your  Highness," 
spoke  Andreas  swiftly  from  his  couch.  "  He 
came  to  Camber  Dane  along  with  the  robber 
band,  but  in  the  pillage  he  bore  no  part,  and 
with  his  own  hands  slew  he  two  villains  who 
would  have  run  me  down,  and  bore  me 
through  the  forest  here,  and  got  food  and 
drink  and  fire  for  me,  and  guarded  my 
'  Troilus  '  there  from  loss  and  —  " 

"  Whose  man  art  thou,  boy  1 "  the  Prince 
broke  in. 

"  I  was  Sir  Watty  Curdle's  man,"  Dickon 


314     How  Dickon  came  by  his  Name. 

made  answer,  with  a  stumbling  tongue,  but 
bold  enough  mien.  "  But  that  I  will  be  no 
more,  but  rather  die  here  first." 

"  Why,  Sir  Watty  hath  outstripped  thee 
in  that  race.  I  set  his  head  up  on  a  pole  in 
Craven  market-place  this  morning,  and  Egs- 
with  hath  the  King's  men  in  it  to  keep  for 
once  an  honest  Christmas,"  said  the  Prince, 
smiling  grimly.     "  What  name  hast  thou  ?  " 

"  No  other  name  save  Dickon." 

"  Why,  then,  for  all  this  doughty  strife  and 
brave  work  shalt  have  another  atop  of  it," 
the  Prince  said,  his  shrewd,  shapely  young 
face  melting  into  a  kindly  softness.  "  Art  a 
good  lad  to  be  thus  sued  for." 

He  cast  his  swift  glance  about  in  instant 
search  for  some  fit  surname,  and  his  eye 
caught  the  struggling  taper-light  upon  the 
bough   above  him. 

"  Thou  shalt  be  Dickon  of  the  Tannen- 
baum,"  he  called  out,  so  that  each  might 
hear,  "  and  wear  my  boar  s  head  in  ex- 
change for  that  other  thou  didst  slay,  and 
hold   thyself  my  man." 


up  in  the   World.  315 

Then  the  torches  moved  on  again,  and 
behind  them,  in  their  dancing  shadows 
through  the  wintry  wood,  the  Prince  and 
knights  and  Htter  passed ;  and  Dickon  fol- 
lowed to  the  highroad,  where  horses  and 
five-score  men-at-arms  were  waiting,  and 
so  to  the  abbey  before  ever  midnight 
struck. 

Seven  years  afterward,  on  bloody  Bos- 
worth  field,  when  King  Richard  hewed  his 
despairing  way  through  the  ring  of  steel 
which  engirdled  the  pretender  Richmond, 
and  fell  there  dead,  another  Richard  rode 
hotly  at  his  heels,  and  like  him  was 
stricken   to   the   earth. 

But  life  was  left  in  this  second,  and  for 
the  madness  of  his  bravery  it  was  spared. 
After  he  had  lain  a  time  in  Leicester  Ab- 
bey, to  be  cured  of  his  wounds,  he  went  to 
London,  where  Henry  now  was  king  in- 
stead.     It  was   our  Dickon. 

The  a^ed  Master  Caxton  and  Andreas 
Mayer,  his  right  hand  now,  stood  Dickon's 
friends   at   court,   and    it    came    in    time    to 


3i6     How  Dickon  came  by  his  Name. 

pass  that  he  died  Sir  Richard  Tannibow, 
for  so  the  EngUsh  tongue  framed  the 
strange  foreign  word  Tannenbaum.  Of 
the  properties  he  left  behind  the  chief  was 
the  domain  of  Egswith,  where  once  he  had 
been   the  lowhest  of  hinds. 

In  after  ages  the  name  of  the  family  still 
further  changed  to  Tambow;  but  it  is  not 
likely  to  undergo  any  further  shortening. 
Though  they  do  not  hold  Egswith  now, 
and  wear  no  title  in  these  later  times,  the 
Tambows  still  bear  upon  their  shield  the 
fir  tree  and  the  candles,  and  rightfully  hold 
their  heads  as  high  as  any  in  all  Shropshire. 


I 


WHERE  AVON  INTO  SEVERN 
FLOWS. 


WHERE  AVON  INTO  SEVERN 
FLOWS. 

CHAPTER    I. 

HUGH    THE    WRITER. 

A  BOY  of  fifteen,  clad  in  doublet  and 
'^  hose  of  plain  cloth  dyed  a  sober 
brown,  sat  alone  at  one  end  of  a  broad, 
vaulted  room,  before  a  writing  table.  The 
strong,  clear  light  which  covered  him  and 
his  work  fell  through  an  open  window, 
arched  at  the  top  and  piercing  a  stone 
wall  of  almost  a  yard's  thickness.  Similar 
openings  to  the  right  and  left  of  him 
marked  with  bars  of  light  a  dozen  other 
places  along  the  extended,  shelf-like  table, 
where  writers  had  now  finished  their  day's 
labor,  and,  departing,  had  left  covered 
horns  of  ink  and  cleansed  utensils  behind 
319 


320        Where  Avon  into  Several  Flows. 

them.  But  the  boy's  task  lagged  behind 
fulfilment,  and  mocked  him. 

Strive  as  he  might,  Hugh  could  not 
compel  the  tails  of  the  longer  letters  to 
curl  freely  and  with  decent  grace,  or  even 
to  run  in  the  same  direction,  one  with  the 
other.  Though  he  pressed  his  elbow  to 
the  board,  and  scowled  intently  at  the 
vellum  before  him,  and  even  thrust  out 
his  tongue  a  little  in  earnest  endeavor, 
still  the  marks  went  wrong.  At  last  there 
came  at  the  end  of  a  word  an  "f,"  which 
needs  must  flow  into  shapely  curves  at  top 
and  bottom,  if  all  fair  writing  were  not  to 
be  shamed  —  and,  lo!  it  did  neither,  but 
sloped  off  shakily  into  a  rude  angle  above, 
a  clumsy  duck's  ^^^  below.  Then  he  laid 
down  his  reed  pen,  and  groaned  aloud. 

This  Hugh  Overtown,  having  later  come 
to  man's  estate  and  then  comfortably  ripened 
into  old  age,  has  been  dust  and  ashes  now 
close  upon  four  hundred  years.  For  every 
minute  in  that  huge  stretch  of  time,  some 
other  boy  since  then  has  put  aside  his  pen 


Hugh  the   Writer.  321 

and  groaned,  because  the  stubborn  letters 
would  not  come  right.  But  not  many  of 
these  have  had  such  sound  cause  for  vexation. 
First  of  all,  Hugh  was  a  trained  writer, 
who  might  look  a  little  later  to  be  actually- 
paid  for  his  toil,  if  so  be  he  did  not  take 
the  black  habit  and  became  a  monk  him- 
self. All  of  their  gentle  craft  that  the 
master  limners  and  letterers  in  this  great 
scriptorium  of  Tewkesbury  Abbey  could 
teach  him,  he  had  learned.  In  all  the  ten 
major  abbeys  and  priories  of  Gloucester- 
shire, perhaps  no  other  lad  of  his  years 
was  so  skilled  to  use  both  brush  and  pen. 
His  term  of  tutelage  being  passed,  he 
wrought  how,  in  repayment  for  his  teach- 
ing, upon  the  choicest  of  the  volumes 
written  here  for  great  nobles  and  patrons 
of  art  and  letters.  And  if  ever  sureness 
of  glance  and  touch  was  called  for,  it  was 
at  this  present  time,  since  the  work  must 
be  meet  for  royal  eyes.  The  volume  — 
when  all  its  soft,  creamy  leaves  should 
have    been    covered    with    arabesques    and 


32  2       Where  Avon  into  Severn  Flows. 

high  painted  crests  and  shields  and  deftly 
regular  text  of  writing,  and  been  sewed 
together  inside  their  embossed  covers  — 
was  to  be  given,  they  said  now,  to  the 
brother  of  the  King.  Prouder  ambition 
than  this  a  craftsman  could  hardly  dream 
of  —  yet  now,  all  at  once,  Hugh  despaired 
to  find  himself  making  foolish  mis-marks 
on  the  precious  page,  and  not  able  to 
contrive  their  betterment. 

The  boy  stared  in  gloom  upon  the  parch- 
ment, wondering  if,  in  truth,  it  were  wholly 
spoilt;  then  his  eyes  wandered  off  through 
the  open  window  to  the  blue  May  sky,  and 
drifting  after  their  gaze  went  his  thoughts, 
in  wistful  reverie  upon  that  gilded  dream- 
land of  princes  and  earls,  whither  this  book, 
in  good  time,  was  to  wend  its  way.  New 
promptings  stirred  in  his  blood. 

He  had  been  a  monk's  boy  in  all  these 
later  years  of  peace,  since  his  father,  the 
poor  saddler,  fell  in  his  Nevill  livery  on 
Hedgely  Moor,  away  in  the  farthest  north. 
The   great    kindly   Abbey  had   been    much 


Hugh  the   Writer.  323 

more  his  home  than  the  dark,  squaHd  Httle 
house  in  the  village  below,  where  his  wid- 
owed mother  lived :  here  he  had  learned 
to  write  so  that  even  the  Abbot,  John 
Strensham,  lofty  magnate  and  companion 
of  princes  though  he  was,  had  nodded 
smilingly  over  his  work ;  here  he  had 
helped  to  serve  the  Mass  in  the  grand 
Abbey  church,  with  censer  and  bell,  and 
felt  his  young  mind  enriched  and  uplifted 
by  pious  longings ;  here,  too,  he  had 
dreamed  into  the  likeness  of  veritable  and 
detailed  history  his  vision  of  the  time 
when  he  should  compose  some  wonderful 
chronicle,  and  win  thanks  from  the  great 
ones  of  the  earth,  and  be  known  to  all 
men  as  Hugh  of  Tewkesbury,  whose  book 
was  to  be  prized  above  every  other. 

But  now,  after  seven  years  wherein  peace- 
ful desires  possessed  plain  men  —  lo  !  here 
was  fightinp;  in  the  land.  And  now  of  a 
sudden  it  seemed  to  Hugh  that  the  writ- 
ing of  books,  the  quiet  cloistral  life,  even 
the  favor  of  the  Abbot  himself,  were  paltry 


324      Where  Avon  into  Severn  Flows. 

things.  An  unaccustomed  heat  tingled  in 
his  veins  at  thought  of  what  existence  out- 
side these  thick  walls  might  now  once  more 
signify.  Who  would  be  a  stoop-shouldered 
scribe,  a  monk,  or  even  a  mass-priest  when 
there  were  war  harnesses  to  wear,  horses 
to  mount,  yew  bows  to  bend  till  the  shaft 
trembled  in  the  strain } 

Hugh  could  almost  believe  that  he  heard 
the  tramp  and  distant  confused  murmur- 
ing of  an  armed  host,  as  his  musing  dream 
took  form.  The  very  pages  lying  before 
him  spoke  of  this  new  outburst  of  war, 
and  linked  him  to  it.  The  book  was  one 
of  heraldry,  and  it  had  been  begun  for  the 
great  Earl  of  Warwick.  Both  the  fame 
and  the  person  of  this  mighty  captain  were 
well-known  to  the  lad,  for  the  King-maker 
was  lord  of  Tewkesbury,  and  the  over- 
shadowing patron  of  village  and  abbey 
alike.  But  when  scarcely  the  first  sheets 
had  been  written  this  puissant  lord  had  fled 
the  kingdom,  and  the  cautious  monks  had 
laid   the   work    aside.      Later  came   strange 


/ 


Hugh  the   Writer.  325 

rumors  and  tales :  how  Warwick  had  re- 
turned and  driven  the  King  away,  and  put 
up  his  whilom  Red-rose  foes  to  rule  in 
London  —  and  then  pens  and  brushes  were 
set  busily  at  the  book  once  more.  But 
now  the  King  had  in  turn  come  back  and 
seized  his  own  again,  and  slain  Warwick 
on  bloody  Barnet  field  —  and  the  frightened 
monks  had  bethought  them  to  finish  the 
book,  with  sundry  emblazonings  of  the 
royal  arms  now  ingeniously  married  to 
those  of  the  Nevills,  and  make  it  a  peace 
offering  to  Duke  George  of  Clarence,  who 
had  wedded  Warwick's  daughter,  and  would 
be  lord  of  Tewkesbury  in  his  shoes. 

The  half-written  page  of  vellum  on  the 
table  seemed  to  Hugh  a  living  part  of  all 
this  stirring  new  romance  of  blood  and 
spark-striking  steel.  Almost  it  made  a  sol- 
dier out  of  him  to  touch  it.  The  char- 
acters engrossed  thereon  by  his  own  hand 
danced  before  his  eyes  —  waved  in  his  day- 
dream like  the  motto  on  some  proud  knight's 
banner  being  borne  forward  to  battle. 


326      Where  Avon  into  Sever 71  Flows. 

Suddenly  the  boy  sat  upright.  Beyond 
question  there  was  an  unwonted  noise,  as 
of  tumult,  coming  through  the  casement 
from  the  village  without.  He  could  dis- 
tinguish the  clanking  of  iron  harness  and 
weapons,  the  trampling  of  hoofs ;   and  now 

—  once !  twice !  a  trumpet  blast,  rising  on 
the  air  above  the  dull,  vague  rumble  which 
bespeaks  the  assembling  of  a  throng.  He 
sprang  to  his  feet,  with  the  thought  to 
climb  the  embrasure  and  look  forth  —  and 
then  as  swiftly  sat  down  again  and  bent 
over  his  work ;  the  Chief  Scrivener  of  the 
Abbey  had  entered  the  chamber. 

Brother  Thomas  came  slowly  to  the  table 

—  a  good,  easy  man,  whose  fat  white  fin- 
gers knew  knife  and  spoon  now  in  these 
latter  days  much  oftener  than  brush  or  pen 

—  and  glanced  idly  over  Hugh's  shoulder 
at  the  pages.  Then  he  lifted  the  unfin- 
ished one,  held  it  in  the  light  to  peer  more 
closely,  and  sniffed  aloud.  Next  he  put  his 
hand  under  Hugh's  chin,  and  raised  the  boy's 
blushing  face  up  till  their  glances  met. 


Hugh  the   Writer.  327 

"What  palsied  spiders'-tracks  are  these?" 
he  asked,  holding  out  the  vellum.  "Art  ill, 
boy  ?  " 

The  gentle  irony  in  his  master's  tone 
touched  Hugh's  conscience.  He  shook  his 
head,  and  hung  it,  and  kept  a  sheepish 
silence. 

Thomas  tossed  the  sheet  upon  the 
table,  and  spoke  with  something  more  of 
sharpness.  "It  is  the  mummers  that  have 
led  thy  wits  off  morris-dancing,"  he  said. 
"  These  May-day  fooleries  stretch  them- 
selves out  now,  each  year  more,  until  no 
time  at  all  is  left  for  honest  work.  This 
it  is  I  noted  in  thee  yesterday,  and  mar- 
velled at — when  thou  hadst  ruled  the  lines 
bordering  the  painted  initial  letter  with 
effect  to  cut  off  holy  St.  Adhelm's  ear. 
Thy  head  is  filled  with  idle  sports  and 
frolics  outside.  Happen  his  Lordship  shall 
put  them  down  now,  once  for  all !  " 

Hu2[h's  red  face  turned  redder  still,  and 
when  he  would  have  spoken,  his  tongue 
was    tied    in    confusion.       Brother    Thomas 


328       Where  Avon  into  Severn  Flows. 

had  unwittingly  drawn  very  near  to  the 
truth  of  an  awkward  thing,  the  burden  of 
which  lay  heavily  on  the  boy's  mind.  In 
the  next  room,  hidden  but  indifferently, 
were  the  fanciful  garments  which  he  him- 
self had  painted  for  the  village  morris- 
dancers  a  mionth  before.  They  had  been 
returned  in  privacy  to  him,  and  he  had 
weakly  pledged  himself  to  trick  them  out 
anew  against  their  coming  use  at  Whit- 
suntide. This  guilty  secret  it  was  that 
had  preyed  upon  his  peace,  and  robbed 
his  hand  of  its  cunning,  ever  since  the 
masking  dresses  had  been  brought  to  him 
on  yester-morning. 

In  any  other  year,  he  might  have  spoken 
freely  to  his  master  of  this  matter.  But  as 
evil  chance  would  have  it,  on  this  very 
May  festival,  now  two  days  gone  —  when 
in  their  pleasant  wont  the  youths  and 
maidens  of  Tewkesbury  rose  before  cock- 
crow, and  hied  them  to  the  greenwood  with 
music  and  the  blowing  of  horns,  to  gather 
haythorn  branches  and  dell-flowers,  to  bathe 


Hugh  the   Writer.  329 

their  faces  in  the  May-dew  for  beauty's 
sake,  to  shoot  at  target  with  Robin  Hood, 
and  dance  their  fill  about  Maid  Marian  — 
who  but  Brother  Thomas  should  pass  on 
his  return  from  matins  at  Deerhurst  cell, 
nodding  drowsily  with  each  movement  of 
his  patient  mule  ?  Hugh  recalled  with  a 
shudder  how  some  wanton  ne'er-do-well  had 
from  the  bushes  hurled  a  huge,  soft  swol- 
len toadstool,  which  broke  upon  the  good 
monk's  astonished  countenance,  and  scat- 
tered miserably  inside  his  hood.  It  was 
small  wonder  that  from  this  Brother  Thomas 
conceived  sour  opinions  of  May-day  sports, 
and  now  hinted  darkly  that  the  Abbot 
should  make  an  end  to  them.  But  as  it 
stood  thus,  Hugh  dared  not  speak  concern- 
ing the  morris-dresses,  and  so  had  hidden 
them,  and  now  was  sorely  troubled  about 
it  all. 

It  may  be  that  here,  upon  the  moment,  he 
would  have  broken  silence  with  his  secret, 
well  knowing  how  truly  gentle  a  heart  had 
Thomas.     But  at   this   the    door  was    flung 


330      Where  Avon  into  Severn  Flows. 

open,  and  there  entered  Brother  Peter,  his 
gaunt  gray  poll  shaking  with  excitement, 
his  claw-like  hands  held  up  as  one  amazed, 
his  eyes  aflame  with  eagerness. 

"  Know  ye  what  is  come  upon  us  ? " 
he  called  out  breathlessly.  "The  foreign 
woman  —  save  her  Grace,  she  that  was  — 
or  is  —  Queen  Margaret,  I  mean  —  is  at 
our  gates,  and  with  her  the  Lord  Duke 
Somerset,  and  her  son  the  Prince  Edward, 
and  the  great  Earl's  daughter,  our  Lady 
Anne,  and  with  them  a  mort  of  lords,  and 
knights,  and  men-at-arms  —  running  now 
over  every  highway  and  lane  inside  Tewkes- 
bury and  out,  taking  to  themselves  roughly 
whatever  eye  likes  or  belly  craves — swear- 
ing by  the  Rood  they  will  have  the  Abbey 
down  about  our  ears  if  we  deny  them  or 
food  or  drink  !  " 

While  Peter's  vehement  tongue  hurled 
forth  these  tidings,  the  man  Thomas  went 
pale  with  sudden  concern  for  the  gi*eat  treas- 
ures and  peace  of  the  house  ;  the  boy  Hugh 
rose  to  his  feet,  all  the  miseries  of  May-day 


Hugh  the   Writer.  331 

and  morris-garments  clean  forgotten,  and 
only  the  inspiriting  ring  of  steel  on  steel  in 
his  ears. 

"  Oh !  may  I  run  and  behold  the  brave 
sight?"  he  prayed  aloud,  but  Thomas  held 
forth  a  restraining  hand  for  the  moment,  and 
Hugh,  much  chafing,  heard  what  further 
Peter  had  to  tell. 

The  Abbot,  and  with  him  the  heads  of 
the  Chapter,  had  gone  to  the  gates,  and 
by  parley  had  warded  off  incursion.  The 
Abbey  servants,  threescore  in  number,  were 
bearing  forth  meat  and  bread  and  ale  to 
spread  on  the  ham  by  the  mill  for  the  fam- 
ished Lancastrians,  who  had  in  these  thirty 
hours  marched  from  Bristol  by  Glouces- 
ter, through  forest  and  foul  by-ways,  with 
scarcely  bite  or  sup,  and  now  ravened  like 
winter  wolves.  There  were  stories  that 
King  Edward,  in  pursuit,  had  covered 
ground  even  more  swiftly,  and  now  was  this 
side  of  Cheltenham,  in  hot  chase.  With  this 
dread  foe  at  their  tail,  the  Lancastrian  lords 
dared  not  attempt  to  ford  the   Severn,  and 


332       Where  Avon  into  Severn  Flows. 

so  Queen,  Prince,  Duke,  and  all  were  halted 
up  above  the  village  on  the  high  Gaston 
fields,  and  there  would  on  the  morrow  give 
battle  to  King  Edward. 

"  Oh  !  woe  the  day  !  "  groaned  Thomas, 
whose  heart  was  in  peaceful  things.  "  How 
shall  we  escape  sack  and  pillage  —  our 
painted  missals  and  fair  written  tomes,  our 
jewelled  images,  our  plate  of  parcel-gilt,  and 
silver-gilt  and  white,  the  beryl  candlesticks, 
the  mitres,  monstrances,  rings,  gloves — wist 
ye  not  how  after  Wakefield's  victory  the 
Queen's  men  broke  open  churches,  and  de- 
filed altars,  from  York  along  to  London 
town  ? " 

"  Hast  but  a  poor  stomach  for  war  times, 
good  Thomas  !  "  said  the  lean  and  eager  old 
Brother  Sacristan,  in  a  tone  spiced  with 
sneerinor.  "  Who  talketh  of  Wakefield  ? 
Who  hath  promised  victory  to  these  ribald 
Devon  louts  ?  On  the  morrow,  we  shall  see 
them  cast  off  their  coats  to  run  the  better. 
Our  stout  Kingr  Edward  hath  never  lost 
fight  or  turned  tail  yet.  Shall  he  begin 
now } " 


Hugh  the   Wi^itcr.  333 

The  old  monk  had  not  forgotten  the  deep 
Yorkist  devotion  in  which  his  hotter  secu- 
lar youth  had  been  trained,  and  his  eyes 
sparkled  now  at  thought  of  how  true  a 
fighter  King  Edward  really  was.  No  such 
fire  of  remembrance  burned  within  Thomas, 
who  none  the  less  accepted  the  proffered 
consolation. 

"  Of  a  certainty,"  he  admitted,  "  the  King 
hath  won  all  his  battles  heretofore.  Doubt- 
less he  hath  the  close  favor  of  the  saints. 
I  mind  me  now  of  his  piety  —  how  that  he 
would  not  be  crowned  on  the  day  appointed, 
for  that  it  was  Childermas,  and  the  Holy 
Innocents  might  not  be  thus  affronted. 
Thus  do  wise  and  pious  kings  and  men " 
—  Thomas  lifted  his  voice  here,  and 
glanced  meaningly  at  Hugh  —  "win  Heav- 
en's smiles,  and  honor  fitly  the  anniversa- 
ries of  the  year  —  not  by  dancing  and  mum- 
ming in  the  greenwood." 

"  I  ween  that  in  this  game  now  forward, 
hard  knocks  will  serve  King  Edward  more 
than  all  his    holiness,    good    Thomas,"  said 


334      Where  Avon  into  Severjt  Floius. 

Peter,  who,  coming  to  the  Abbey  late  in 
Hfe,  brought  some  carnal  wisdom  along  in 
his  skull.  "  And  this  more  —  mark  thou  my 
words  —  when  all  is  still  again  the  Abbey 
will  be  the  richer,  not  the  poorer,  for  it  all." 

"  How  wilt  thou  make  that  good  }  "  asked 
Thomas.  "  At  best,  this  beef  and  ale  must 
be  at  our  cost  —  and  the  worst  may  more 
easily  come  to  pass." 

"  Hast  forgotten  the  funerals  ?  "  said 
Peter,  dryly,  with  a  significant  nod  towards 
the  door  beyond.  Then,  noting  no  gleam 
of  comprehension  on  the  faces  of  the 
others,  he  strode  to  this  door,  and  threw 
it  open.  Within,  in  the  half  light,  they 
could  see  through  the  narrow  archway  the 
dim  outlines  of  rich  banners  standing  piled 
against  the  walls,  and  candles  heaped  on 
chests  of  vestments,  and  velvet  palls. 

"  How  make  it  good  '^.  "  cried  the  worldly 
Peter.  "  "  Where  we  have  put  pence  into 
that  room  we  shall  draw  forth  rose-nobles. 
Know  you  not  the  King's  charge  to  his 
fighting  men,  '  Kill  the  lords,  but  spare  the 


Hugh  the   Writer.  335 

commons ! '  By  sundown  of  the  morrow 
one  may  walk  among  dead  knights  round 
about  like  sheeps'  carcasses  on  a  murrain'd 
moor.  The  Gastons,  if  there  the  Queen 
holdeth  her  place  till  she  be  met,  will  turn 
to  marshes  with  gentle  blood.  And  where 
shall  they  be  buried,  but  here,  within  the 
holy  Abbey's  walls  1  Then  see  what  comes : 
item,  for  tolling  the  death-bells ;  item,  for 
streaking-board  and  face-cloth ;  item,  for  so 
many  sin-eaters,  to  be  of  our  own  ser- 
vitors; item,  for  so  much  waste  of  funeral 
torches ;  item,  for  funeral  sermons ;  item, 
for  the  hiring  of  palls;  item,  for  hiring  of 
garlands  of  wax  and  gum  to  hang  over  the 
graves ;  item,  for  masses  and  candles  before 
the  rood  at  month's  mind ;   item  — " 

"  Peace,  greedy  Peter !  "  broke  in  the 
artist  Thomas ;  "  wert  thou  bred  for  a 
gravedigger .?  His  Lordship  mislikes  this 
funeral  zeal  of  thine.  When  thy  grumbling 
for  that  the  great  Earl  came  not  here  from 
Barnet  for  his  burial  reached  the  Abbot's 
ears,  he  spoke  wrothfuUy  concerning  it." 


336      Where  Avon  into  Severn  Flows. 

"  So  would  he  not,  when  I  had  shown 
him  the  charges  in  my  book  for  that  same," 
retorted  Peter.  "  For  how  lives  an  Abbey- 
save  by  the  death  of  generous  and  holy 
men  and  women  ?  And  was  it  not  a  foul 
thing  that  the  great  Earl  —  lord  of  this 
manor,  patron  of  this  Abbey  —  should  not 
have  profitably  laid  his  bones  here,  where 
now  for  four  hundred  years  lie  all  the 
lords  of  Tewkesbury,  Fitz-Hamons,  Clares, 
De  Spensers,  Beauchamps  —  but  should  be 
filched  away  to  Berkshire  to  enrich  those 
Austin  friars  instead  ?  Thus  is  religion 
scandalized,  Sir  Scrivener !  " 

Thomas  turned  away  at  this,  mistrusting 
his  temper  in  further  argument;  and  Hugh 
would  gladly  have  followed  him  out  of  the 
room,  but  that  Peter  bent  his  steps  toward 
the  storage  chamber  beyond,  where  lay 
hidden  those  wretched  morris  trappings. 
Prudence  counselled  the  lad  to  depart,  and 
let  discovery  take  care  of  itself;  but  anxiety 
held  him  back,  and  he  went  in  at  the  heels 
of  the  Sacristan. 


Hugh  the   Writer.  337 

Old  Peter  sent  a  speculative  eye  shrewdly 
over  the  contents  of  the  room,  making  a 
rough  enumeration  as  he  progressed,  and 
offerino:  comments  aloud  from  time  to  time 
half  to  himself. 

"  Full  seven  dozen  small  candles,"  he 
muttered,  "  but  scarce  a  score  of  torches. 
How  should  we  be  shamed  if  they  brought 
us  a  ofreat  lord  like  Somerset !  The  moulds 
shall  be  filled  overnight."  Then  he  turned 
up  the  corner  of  a  purple  velvet  pall,  noting 
its  frayed  edge  and  tarnished  gilt  braid. 
"  Time  was,"  he  grumbled,  "  when  for  this 
eight  crowns  was  gladly  paid  in  hire ;  alack, 
but  two  months  since  Dame  Willowby  cried 
out  against  me  when  I  asked  a  paltry 
five,  and  buried  her  good  man  under  that 
fustian  with  the  linen  edge  instead.  Ah, 
the  impious  times  we  are  fallen  upon ! 
Yet,  if  so  be  the  press  to  get  buried  is 
great  enough,  and  they  carry  the  lights 
well  up  in  air,  a  lord  might  be  content 
with  it  at  ten  crowns."  Again  he  mused 
over  the  waxen  wreaths  heaped  on  the  floor. 


338      Where  Avon  into  Severn  Flows. 

"  There  are  half  as  many  more  on  the  rood 
screen  that  may  come  down,  if  it  be  deftly 
done,  and  go  into  hire  again  for  better 
men.  The  townspeople  will  be  too  stirred 
with  battle  talk  to  miss  them." 

Suddenly  he  turned  to  Hugh,  and  raised 
his  voice.  "  The  Sub-Prior  will  not 
hearken  to  me.  What  we  are  richest 
in  is  banners  —  here,  against  the  wall,  are 
a  dozen  of  the  bravest  in  all  Gloucester. 
Yet  in  what  do  they  serve !  —  naught  save 
those  trivial  processions  of  Rogation  Week, 
where  all  is  outlay  and  nothing  income. 
If  he  did  but  drop  the  hint,  the  fashion 
would  rise  to  hire  them  for  funerals ;  yet 
when  I  urged  this  upon  him  he  laughed 
me  to  scorn !  I  tell  thee,  boy,  there  is 
no  true  piety  left  in  mankind!" 

Hugh  had  listened  with  but  dull  ears, 
his  mind  wavering  between  thoughts  of 
what  was  going  forward  outside,  and  fears 
lest  Peter  should  push  his  inquiries  within 
the  chamber  too  far.     Here  he  said :  — 

"  Good    brother,   if    I   do   help    thee   to- 


Hztgh  the   Writer.  339 

night  with  the  moulds  —  and  later  with 
what  else  is  needful  —  wilt  thou  go  with 
me  now  forth  to  the  street  and  view  these 
strange  new  things  ?  I  have  never  yet 
seen  an  army,  harnessed  for  fighting,  close 
at  hand.  And  if  thou  art  with  me,  Thomas 
will  not  be  vexed." 

So  the  twain  —  the  old  monk  full  as 
eager  as  the  lad  to  rub  shoulders  with 
men-at-arms  —  made  their  way  through  the 
corridors  and  cloister  walks  to  the  great 
western  gate  of  the  Abbey.  They  met  no 
one  either  within  the  buildings  or  in  these 
cool,  open-air  paths :  the  monks  were  at 
their  prayers  in  the  church,  perhaps,  or  in 
the  garden   burying  the  Abbey's   treasures. 

But  when  the  gate  was  reached  —  "An- 
gels save  us  !  "  gasped  good  Peter ;  "  if 
our  walls  win  soundly  through  this  next 
forty  hours,  commoners  shall  be  buried 
with  candles  till  Ascension  Day  for  three- 
pence.    I  vow  it  to  Our  Lady !  " 

Well  might  such  as  loved  the  Abbey 
feel  their  hearts  sink   at   the   sight !      Upon 


340      Where  Avon  i7ito  Severn  Flows. 

the  green  before  the  gate,  which  sloped 
smoothly  for  an  arrow's  flight  down  to 
the  mill  pit  on  the  Avon,  swaggered  or 
lounged  at  leisure  full  five  hundred  base- 
born  archers  and  billmen,  mired  to  the 
knees,  unwashed  and  foul  of  aspect,  with 
rusty  chain  coats  or  torn  and  blackened 
leathern  jackets.  Some  wore  upon  their 
heads  battered  iron  sallets ;  others  had 
only  hoods  pulled  forward  to  their  brows, 
or  even  lying  back  upon  their  shoulders, 
but  over  each  face  hung  tangled  masses 
of  thick  hair,  and  on  the  cleanest  chin 
sprouted  a  fortnight's  beard. 

These  unkempt  ruffians  were  for  the 
most  part  swart  of  visage,  as  Devon  and 
Cornishmen  should  be.  They  waited  now 
idly  upon  the  return  of  their  lords  from 
the  great  church  in  front.  While  their 
betters  within  prayed  to  the  saints  in 
heaven  against  the  morrow's  carnage,  these 
fellows  sauntered  in  groups  on  the  green 
sward,  or  played  at  dice  upon  a  cloak 
spread    flat  on  earth,  or  wrestled   in   rough 


Hugh  the   Writer.  341 

jest  to  further  amaze  the  gaping  natives. 
Many  were  ah*eady  in  their  cups,  yet  still 
the  servants  of  the  Abbey  were  to  be 
seen,  in  the  waning  sunlight,  on  the  ham 
beyond,  broaching  new  casks  of  ale. 
Ribald  quips  and  drunken  laughter  filled 
the  air.  In  the  distance,  close  upon  the 
entrance  to  the  church  itself,  two  soldiers 
had  thrown  a  farmer  to  the  ground,  and 
one  was  stripping  off  his  doublet  while 
the  other  kicked  him  as  he  lay.  From 
the  direction  of  the  mill  there  rose  the 
scream  of  a  woman  —  and  no  one  heeded 
it. 

The  Sacristan  and  the  boy  cowered  for 
a  time  in  the  shadow  of  the  gateway,  look- 
ing out  with  fearful  eyes  upon  this  un- 
wonted scene.  From  their  cover,  they 
watched  until  the  great  ones  began  coming 
out  from  their  prayers,  and  the  idling  men- 
at-arms  were  hurriedly  gathered,  each  after 
his  livery,  to  attend  them.  These  billmen 
bore  upon  their  breasts  the  cognizances  of 
their  masters,  but  so  worn  and  defaced  were 


342       Where  Avon  into  Severn  Flows. 

many  of  these  that  all  Hugh's  heraldic  lore 
could  not  cope  with  them.  Thus  they  could 
but  guess  who  this  or  that  proud  knight 
might  be,  as  he  passed  with  gilded  armor 
rattling  in  every  joint,  and  the  squalid  knot 
of  soldiers  tramping  at  his  heels. 

"But  this  —  this  is  surely  the  three  tor- 
teaux  of  the  Courtenays,"  he  whispered, 
nudging  Peter.  "  And  he  who  carries  his 
casquetel  in  hand,  with  fair  curls  and  head 
bent  in  thought  —  that  would  be  John,  the 
new  Earl  of  Devon." 

The  two  looked  upon  this  fine,  strong, 
goodly  young  nobleman,  and  read  in  the 
three  crimson  circles  wrought  upon  the  jer- 
kins of  his  retainers  a  tale  of  stately  long 
descent,  of  cousinship  with  kings,  of  cru- 
sades, tournaments,  and  centuries  of  gallant 
warfare  —  familiar  and  stirring  then  to  every 
schooled  mind  in  England. 

"  Ay  —  I  mind  him  now,"  said  Peter, 
peering  eagerly  forth.  "  I  saw  his  brother, 
the  Earl  Thomas,  led  to  the  block  at  York, 
after    Towton   field  —  'tis    nine    years    sine. 


Hugh  the   Writer.  343 

There  was  a  witch  who  then  foretold  that 
those  three  ripe-red  roundels  of  the  Courte- 
nays  were  blood  spots  from  three  brothers' 
hearts,  and  all  should  die  under  the  axe." 

A  stranger's  voice,  close  behind  them, 
took  up  their  talk. 

"  My  father  saw  the  second  brother,  Earl 
Henry,  beheaded  at  Salisbury  four  years 
later  —  and  men  called  then  to  mind  this 
same  bloody  prophecy  —  to  the  end  that 
the  Lord  John  fled  the  realm.  Look  where 
he  walks,  with  bowed  head  and  face  o'er- 
cast  —  a  fateful  man !  Belike  the  axe's 
edge  is  whetted  for  him,  even  now." 

He  who  spoke  thus,  with  a  shivering 
sigh  to  close  his  speech,  was  young  and  of 
slight  form  —  clad  from  sole  to  crown  in 
plain  and  dulled  plate-harness.  His  up- 
lifted visor  framed  a  face  of  small  features 
and  soft  lines,  with  saddened  eyes.  He 
had  stepped  aside  into  the  gateway  un- 
noted by  the  two,  and  stood  now  at  the 
Sacristan's  elbow,  gazing  forth  as  gloomily 
as  ever  affrighted  monk  might  do. 


344      Where  Avon  into  Severn  Flows, 

Peter  glanced  him  briefly  over,  and  sniffed 
disdain. 

"  I  know  you  not,  young  sir,"  he  said, 
with  curtness,  "  and  offer  no  offence.  But 
I  have  seen  stout  fighting  in  my  time  — 
and  were  you  kin  .of  mine,  into  to-morrow's 
battle  you  should  not  stir,  with  witches' 
babble  sickening  your  thoughts,  and  dead 
men's  bones  in  your  eyes.  Hearten  your- 
self, I  conjure  you !  " 

That  monk  should  bear  himself  thus 
masterfully  toward  warrior  startled  Hugh 
for  the  moment,  until  he  recalled  that  old 
Peter  had  on  occasion  browbeaten  even  the 
Sub-Prior  himself,  and  reflected  that  this 
Knight  seemed  very  young. 

The  stranger  made  no  reply,  but  kept 
his  anxious  gaze  fastened  upon  the  scene 
without.  Then,  with  a  sudden  little  shud- 
der which  rattled  swiftly  like  an  echo 
through  his  armor,  he  lifted  his  head  up- 
right, and  tossed  the  end  of  his  cloak 
across  his  shoulder. 

"  The  streets  are  strange  to  me,"  he  said 


Hugh  the   Writer.  345 

proudly.  "  If  you  are  so  minded,  walk 
with  me  upon  them.  No  harm  shall  befall 
you! 

His  beckoning  hand  summoned  from 
the  outer  shadows  two  tall  old  men-at-arms, 
in  buU's-hide  jackets  and  bearing  pikes. 

"  Fare  ye  close  upon  our  heels,  Wilkin 
and  Ashman,"  the  Knight  commanded.  The 
monk  and  scrivener-lad  took  instant  counsel 
of  glances,  and  without  a  word  walked  be- 
side their  new  companion  —  forth  from  the 
calm  haven  of  Mother  Church  into  the  rude 
turbulence  of  murderous  civil  war. 

Pressing  tight  together,  the  five  made 
their  way  across  the  green  and  into 
Church  Street.  To  their  left,  above  the 
black  roofs  of  the  Abbey  mills,  the  sun- 
set sky  was  glowing  with  laced  bars  of 
blood  and  sulphur,  overhung  by  a  pall  of 
lead.  Before  them,  the  narrow  street  lay 
dark  beneath  the  shadows  of  projecting 
roofs  and  swollen  galleries. 

Here,  as  in  the  other  streets  which  they 
traversed,    the    houses    were   for    the    most 


346      Where  Avon  into  Severn  Flows. 

part  closed  and  lightless.  Even  in  the 
market-place,  where  the  Tolzey  cross  glim- 
mered faintly  in  the  waning  daylight  like 
an  altar  in  some  deserted  unroofed  church, 
the  citizens  gave  no  sign  of  life  in  their 
homes  ;  movement  enough  was  on  foot  all 
about  them,  but  it  was  that  of  strangers. 
Knots  of  soldiers,  some  already  with  flam- 
ing torches,  strode  aimlessly  up  and  down 
before  the  taverns  and  in  the  alleys,  roar- 
ing forth  camp  songs,  kicking  at  suspected 
doors,  or  brawling  with  such  trembling  in- 
habitants as  they  had  unearthed.  Amidst 
it  all  the  Knight  passed  unquestioned, 
with  head  haughtily  erect. 

If  the  Knight  had  led  the  walk  town- 
wards  with  set  purpose,  it  did  not  appear; 
for  presently  he  turned,  and  the  five 
pushed  back  again  through  the  jostling, 
clamorous  crowd  to  the  open  Abbey  green. 
At  the  great  gate  he  paused,  and  motioned 
the  two  retainers  to  stand  aside.  Still  he 
hesitated,  tapping  the  sward  impatiently 
with     his     mailed     foot,     his     gaze     astray 


Hugh  the   Writer.  347 

among    the    clouds.       At    last    he    spoke, 
turning  abruptly  to  the  boy :  — 

"  Canst  write  me  a  letter,  to-night  ? " 

"How  wist  ye  he  is  a  penman?"  asked 
Peter,  in  amazed  suspicion. 

"What  other  wears  ink  upon  his  fin- 
gers ?  Nay  —  not  you,  good  monk  !  —  I 
asked  the  lad." 

"  The  scriptorium  is  long  since  shut," 
Hugh  began ;    "  and  —  " 

"  Mayhap  this  golden  key  will  fit  the 
lock,"  the  Knight  interposed,  drawing  a 
coin  from  the  purse  at  his  side.  "  The 
letter  is  a  thing  of  life  or  death." 

"  It  may  be  contrived,"  broke  in  good 
Peter,  taking  the  money  without  ceremony. 
"When  a  life  hangs  on  a  few  paltry 
scratches  of  the  pen,  should  we  be  Chris- 
tians to  withhold  them?" 

The  Sacristan  led  the  way  now  by  a  pos- 
tern door  into  a  basement  room,  and  lighted 
two   candles  by  the  embers  on  the  hearth. 

"  Run  you,"  he  said  to  Hugh,  "  and 
bring  hither  what  is  needful." 


34^      Where  Avon  into  Severn  Flows. 

When  the  boy  returned,  and  placed 
paper,  inkhorn,  and  wax  upon  the  table, 
and,  pen  in  teeth,  looked  inquiry  upward, 
the  Knight's  wits  seemed  wandering  once 
again.  He  paced  to  and  fro  about  the 
chamber,  halting  a  dozen  times  to  utter 
words  which  would  not  come,  and  then, 
with  a  head-shake,  taking  up  his  march 
upon  the  stones.  Finally,  thus  he  ordered 
the  letter  written,  though  not  without 
many  pauses,  and  erasures  in  plenty:  — 

From  a  true  friend :  Much  there  is  to  tell  you ; 
how  that  the  Lady  Katherine's  father  is  dead,  and 
herself  for  some  time  sore  beset  and  menaced  by  the 
enemy  you  wot  of,  but  now  in  safety.  Worse  betides 
you  if  this  evil  man  works  his  will.  This  se'nnight 
four  villeins  took  horse  from  Okehampton  with  intent 
to  slay  you  and  win  reward  from  him ;  so  that  he 
gains  your  lands  and  hers,  and  gets  her  to  wife  to  boot. 
These  foul  knaves  wear  the  Courtenay  livery,  and,  ar- 
rived to-day  in  your  camp,  mix  with  the  Lord  John's 
train ;  though  of  this  he  is  innocent.  So  watch  and 
ware,  as  herself  and  I  will  pray. 

"  There  needs  no  signature,"  the  Knight 
replied,   when    at   the    finish    Hugh   looked 


Hugh  the   Writer.  349 

up.  "  Seal  it  with  this  ring,"  and  took 
from  his  baslard-hilt  a  little  jewelled  hoop, 
with  the  signet  of  three  fishes,  upright. 
Then,  when  the  wax  securely  held  the  silk, 
he  bade  him  superscribe  the  name  "  Sir 
Hereward  Thayer,  Knt." 

The  Knight  took  the  packet  —  saying, 
briefly:  "I  am  in  much  beholden  to  you 
both,  and  to  all  black  monks  through  you, 
and  shall  forget  nor  one  nor  other,"  and 
went  his  way  through  the  postern  into  the 
darkness,  leaving  the  ring  behind. 


CHAPTER    II. 

SIR  hereward's  ring. 

CROM  the  spire  of  the  Abbey  church, 
throughout  the  night,  the  monks  could 
see  on  the  high  lands  close  by,  to  the 
south,  long  lines  of  red  camp-fires,  and 
dancing  torches  here  and  there,  as  captains 
made  their  watchful  rounds.  The  cries  of 
the  sentries  came  to  their  ears  through  the 
stilled  air,  as  from  the  near  side  of  Swil- 
gate  Brook  itself,  which  washed  the  Abbey's 
walls.  Little  of  sleep  did  the  cells  or  dor- 
mitories know  that  frightened  night,  for 
servants  were  busy  till  the  first  cock-crow 
burying  jewels  and  plate  in  the  Abbot's 
garden,  and  half  the  brothers  kept  vigil  in 
prayer  before  the  High  Altar,  or  in  the 
chapels  of  St.  Eustacius  and  St.  James, 
while    others    slumbered    fitfully    on    their 

350 


Sir  Hereward's  Ring.  351 

pallets,  or  climbed  the  tower  to  watch  the 
Lancastrians'  lights. 

Thus,  at  last,  anxious  morning  broke, 
and  the  cawing  of  the  rooks  in  the  branches 
close  to  Hugh's  window  roused  the  boy 
from  his  sleep.  At  a  bound  he  was  on 
his  feet,  forgetting  even  to  rub  his  eyes, 
and  glad  that,  having  slept  in  his  clothes, 
he  might  fare  forth  without  loss  of  time. 
His  dreams  had  been  all  of  archery  —  how 
that  the  best  bows  were  of  Spanish  yew, 
and  he  had  tried  to  cut  down  the  English 
yews  in  the  churchyard  to  make  new  weap- 
ons, and  had  been  haled  before  the  King's 
justices  because  of  the  law  to  preserve  the 
yews  for  the  King's  armies  —  and  the  thread 
of  this  dream  ran  through  his  mind  even 
as  he  knelt  and  muttered  his  prayer. 

It  was  full  daylight  when  Hugh  found 
himself  outside  the  Abbey  walls  and  on 
the  footpath  leading  over  the  brook  up  to 
the  Vineyards.  Behind  him  the  matin 
chimes  were  sounding  from  the  belfry.  Be- 
fore him  rose  the  dismantled  walls  of  Holme 


352       Where  Avon  into  Severn  Flows. 

Castle,  once  the  abiding  place  of  the  great 
Earls  of  Gloster,  but  now  long  since  grown 
over  with  ivy,  and  a  harbor  for  owls 
and  bats.  When  he  had  come  to  the  top 
of  the  knoll,  at  the  front  of  these  ruins, 
the  sight  spread  out  before  his  eyes  was 
one  to  well  quicken  breath  and  set  veins 
tingling. 

A  vast  host  of  armed  men  seemed  to 
cover  the  earth  as  far  as  he  could  see.  The 
boy  had  not  known  before  that  the  whole 
world  contained  so  many  soldiers.  One 
company  was  in  the  rough  meadow  close 
at  hand.  In  the  bright  light  he  could  dis- 
cern them  clearly  —  strong  men  of  war, 
with  battered  steel  breastplates,  half  blue, 
half  red  with  rust,  and  iron  caps  upon  their 
heads.  Some  of  these  were  leading  a  score 
of  horses  back  and  down  to  the  brook 
whence  he  had  come.  Others  toiled  at  lev- 
elling some  half-dozen  camp-tents  of  white 
cloth,  with  crimson  stripes,  while  still 
others  crowded  about  the  place  where 
sparks    crackled    and    black    smoke    curled 


Sir  Here  ward's  Ring.  353 

about  huge  caldrons  wherein  food  was  cook- 
ing. At  the  peak  of  the  largest  tent,  high 
upon  the  staff,  floated  gently  in  the  early 
breeze  an  emblazoned  standard,  bearing  the 
blood-red  three  roundels  of  the  Courtenays. 

For  a  moment  Hugh's  thoughts  stopped 
at  the  memory  of  the  strange  Knight  and 
his  letter;  somewhere  among  this  band  of 
brawny  fighting  men  would  be  the  four 
caitiffs  who  were  here  to  slay  that  un- 
known Devon  gentleman.  Sir  Hereward. 
He  glanced  at  his  little  finger,  whereon  the 
signet  ring  of  the  three  fishes  glittered  un- 
wontedly,  —  and  marvelled  to  find  his  base- 
born  skin  touched  by  such  a  trinket,  for 
he  had  resisted  Peter's  desire  to  take  it 
over  to  the  Abbey  treasury,  —  and  then  the 
glance  lifted  itself  to  still  more  marvellous 
things. 

Away  in  the  distance,  on  the  topmost 
point  to  the  left  hand  of  the  highroad, 
Hugh  had  already  noted  a  brave  pavilion, 
guarded  by  banks  of  earth  raised  since  last 
he  saw  that  familiar  horizon,  and  overhung 


354      Where  Avon  into  Severn  Flows. 

by  what  he  saw  now  to  be  the  royal  stand- 
ard of  England's  Kings.  A  blare  of  trum- 
pets, rolling  in  sharp  echoes  from  mound 
to  mound  across  the  field,  proceeded  now 
from  this  point,  and  as  he  looked  Hugh 
saw  upon  the  highway,  setting  forth  in  his 
direction,  a  little  cavalcade  of  knights  and 
ladies  whose  dress  and  trappings  sparkled 
in  the  morning  sun,  even  thus  afar,  like 
the  lights  on  the  High  Altar  beneath  the 
painted  windows. 

Onward  this  group  of  riders  came  — 
and  the  boy,  creeping  under  the  cover  of 
the  hedge,  stole  forward  with  no  other 
thought  than  to  see  them  close  at  hand. 
And  so  it  was  that  he  crouched  in  listen- 
ing silence,  not  more  than  twenty  paces 
removed,  when  this  thing  happened. 

The  tall,  grave-faced,  golden-haired  noble 
whom  Hugh  knew  to  be  John,  Earl  of 
Devon,  clad  all  in  burnished  steel,  and 
bearing  a  great  lion-crested  tilting  helmet 
upon  his  arm,  strode  forth  from  the  com- 
pany near   the  ruins   to   the    highway,   and 


Sir  Hereward' s  Ring.  355 

stood  thus,  with  bare  head  erect  in  the 
sunHght,  until  the  riders,  cantering  Hghtly 
over  the  dew-laid  road,  drew  rein  before 
him.  Then  he  advanced,  and  bending  with 
one  knee  to  earth,  kissed  the  hand  of  a 
lady  who,  with  a  single  knight,  rode  at 
the  head  of  the  little  train. 

This  lady,  then,  —  she  with  the  bold, 
beautiful  face,  pale  now  as  an  ivory  missal- 
cover,  and  drawn  with  stern  lines,  she  with 
the  burning  brown-black  eyes,  and  proudly 
upright  carriage,  —  was  the  Frenchwoman, 
the  Queen,  the  great  Margaret  of  Anjou ! 

Hugh  held  his  breath  and  stared  out  of 
fixed  eyes  at  this  terrible  foreign  woman, 
whose  hates  had  fastened  war  upon  his 
country,  had  killed  even  his  own  father, 
had  drenched  the  land  with  blood  —  and 
listened  with  all  his  ears. 

"  We  have  given  you,  out  of  our  grace, 
the  lands  and  titles  which  your  recreant 
brother  Henry  forfeited,  and  lost  along 
with  his  head,  when  he  played  fast  and 
loose  with    the    usurper,"   this   Queen    said, 


356      Where  Avon  into  Severn  Flows. 

in  loud,  cold  tones,  when  the  Courtenay 
stood  upright  again.  "  This  day  will  test 
our  wisdom  in  the  thing." 

"Madame,"  the  Earl  made  answer,  hold- 
ing her  eye  with  his,  "  our  house  has 
given  three  lives  for  you.  If  mine  goes 
to-day  I  shall  die  sorrowing  chiefly  for 
this  —  that  there  are  no  more  of  us  to  die 
for  our  King." 

The  knight  who  rode  beside  the  Queen 
—  Hugh  through  the  bushes  saw  only  that 
he  was  tall  and  lean,  with  a  delicately 
handsome  young  face  and  reddish-brown 
hair  under  his  beaver,  and  wore  a  silver 
swan  on  his  breast  —  spoke  now :  — 

"  My  Lord  of  Devon,  my  mother  rides 
now  with  the  Lady  Anne  and  her  tiring 
women  to  a  place  of  safety  on  t'other  side 
of  Avon,  there  to  wait  upon  the  good  tid- 
ings we  shall  presently  bring  her.  The 
place  is  at  Bushley,  the  Lady  Anne  being 
acquainted  with  it  from  childhood.  From 
this,  I  return  to  lead  our  centre,  with  the 
Prior  and   the   Lord   Wenlock.      My   Lord 


He  advanced  and  kissed  the  Lady's  Hand." 


Sir  Hereward's  Ring.  359 

Duke  holds  the  front,  beyond  where  our 
standard  hangs.  To  you,  my  lord,  the 
rear  is  given,  to  swing  across  this  field, 
with  your  back  against  the  ridge.  The 
men  from  Somerset  march  to  join  you, 
even  now.  God  stead  you,  honest  Courte- 
nay,  and  bring  us  victory ! " 

The  Prince  at  this  threw  himself  off  his 
horse  and  into  his  mqther's  arms,  his  face 
buried  upon  her  knees,  his  hands  holding 
hers.  The  Queen,  with  marble  face,  swept 
her  agonized  glance  high  into  the  morn- 
ing sky,  and  wept  not,  neither  spoke,  but 
bit  her  lips,  and  with  her  eyes  invoked 
the  saints. 

Then,  like  some  dissolving  mist  before 
Hugh's  gaze,  everything  was  altered.  The 
Queen  with  her  escort  was  ambling  one 
way,  toward  the  gray  Abbey  walls  and  the 
passage  at  the  mill ;  her  gallant  young  son 
was  galloping  with  his  group  of  knights 
back  whence  he  came ;  the  Courtenay 
company,  close  at  hand,  was  gathering 
itself   into    ranks,  with    knights    clambering 


360      Where  Avon  into  Severn  Flows. 

heavily  into  saddles,  and  men-at-arms  strik- 
ing their  pikes  together.  The  whole 
broad  field  was,  as  by  some  magic  hand, 
set  in  motion ;  everywhere  troops  were 
marching,  standards  fluttering  forward, 
trumpets  calling  shrill-voiced  to  one 
another. 

The  boy,  lifting  his  head  now  above  the 
hedge,  looked  upon  .this  vast  shifting  pict- 
ure with  but  a  dazed  comprehension. 
The  beauty  of  it  all  was  so  great  that  its 
grim  meaning  missed  his  mind.  As  far 
as  eye  could  reach,  armed  bodies  of  men, 
with  banners  and  harness  glittering  in  the 
sunlight,  met  the  vision.  And  now,  of  a 
sudden,  all  movement  ceased.  The  birds 
in  the  ivy  on  the  ruin  behind  him  sang 
into  the  morning  air,  and  no  trumpet 
answered  them.     The  landscape  stood  still. 

Suddenly  the  boy  clapped  hands  to 
ears,  and  stared  affrightedly  about  him. 
A  demon-like  roaring  sound  had  burst, 
as  out  of  the  very  earth,  which  rocked 
and   quivered    under   the    shock.      A    thou- 


Sir  Hereward's  Ring.  361 

sand  thunder-claps  in  one,  out  from  the 
clear  sky !  Quailing  with  fright,  as  lesser 
belching  noises  succeeded,  shaking  the 
ground  and  confounding  all  senses  and 
wits,  Hugh  backed  out  of  the  ditch,  and 
felt,  rather  than  made,  his  way  rearward 
to  the  shadow  of  the  ruins.  Creeping  up 
upon  a  ragged  heap  of  tumbled  stones, 
he  ventured  to  look  forth  again. 

A  broadened  veil  of  smoke  —  curious, 
thin,  bluish  smoke  —  all  unlike  that  from 
burnins:  thatches  or  stubble  refuse  —  huno; 
now  upon  the  horizon  where  the  royal 
standard  had  been.  Was  it  still  there } 
Hugh  could  not  tell.  Flashes  of  fire 
leaped  swiftly  for  an  instant  here  and 
there  from  this  veil  of  smoky  haze,  and 
after  each  dart  of  flame  there  burst  this 
deafening,  thunderous  roar  which  had  so 
appalled  him.  Then  it  broke  upon  his 
brain  that  these  were  cannon,  of  which 
all  men  had  long  since  heard,  but  few  had 
ever   seen    on    Enfrlish    soil.       More    than 

O 

this  it  was  not  easy  to  grasp   of  what  w?s 


362       Where  Avon  into  Severn  Flows. 

going  forward.  Along  the  line  of  smoke, 
where  sky  ought  to  meet  earth,  coukl  be 
seen  confused  masses  of  horse  and  foot- 
men struggHng  together,  but  whither 
moving  or  how  faring  in  their  conflict 
could  not  be  told.  The  men  under 
Courtenay's  banner  had  marched  west- 
ward toward  the  windmill,  and  were  not 
in  sight. 

All  at  once  Hugh's  gaze  was  diverted 
from  this  distant  prospect  to  a  strange  ap- 
parition nearer  at  hand  —  a  brownish-gray 
sort  of  globe,  like  a  full  moon,  which,  low 
to  earth,  stood  between  him  and  the 
smoke,  and  seemed  to  wax  in  bigness 
visibly  as  he  looked.  There  was  not  time 
for  thought  before  this  ball,  singing  to 
itself  as  it  came,  swelled  to  giant  size  in 
the  lad's  vision  —  then  smashed  into  the 
vine-clad  wall  beside  him  with  a  huge 
scattering  of  stones  and  mortar.  The 
wall  quivered  for  a  moment,  then  fell  out- 
ward, prone  to  the  sward. 

Without  hesitation,  Hugh  slid  dow^n  from 


Sir  Hcrcward's  Ring.  363 

his  perch,  and  half-choked  with  dust  and 
Hme  ran  toward  Swilgate  Brook  as  fast  as 
ever  his  legs  would  carry  him.  He  made  no 
pause,  nor  cast  any  glance  backward,  until 
he  stumbled,  panting  and  aflame  with  fright, 
into  the  cool  shadow  of  the  Abbey's  big  west 
gate.  Not  till  its  ponderous  doors  had 
clansfed  shut  behind  him,  did  he  venture  to 
draw  breath. 

Only  the  slowest  and  stoutest  of  the  lay 
servitors  in  the  kitchen  lingered  yet  over 
their  morning  meal  when  the  boy,  his  hunger 
led  forward  by  keenest  smelling  sense,  found 
his  way  thither.  Within  this  low-vaulted 
chamber  it  was  as  if  the  confusion  of  tongues 
had  fallen  again.  There  were  some  hardier 
spirits  who  had,  from  sundry  distant  points 
of  vantage,  seen  a  tithe  of  what  Hugh  had 
witnessed.  These  told  their  tales  to  gaping, 
awe-stricken  groups  with  much  bold  em- 
broidery and  emblazoning  of  fancy,  peopling 
the  field  with  mailed  giants,  and  imputing  to 
magic  the  mystery  of  the  cannons,  whose 
dire  bellowings  gave  even  these  stony  kitchen 


364      Where  Avon  into  Severn  Flows. 

walls  a  throbbing  pulse.  Worse  still  was 
what  the  village  vagabonds  —  permitted  for 
the  once  to  enter  freely  and  mix  with  their 
betters  before  the  fires  —  related  with  roll- 
ing eyes  and  quaking  voices,  to  wile  further 
victuals  from  the  frightened  cooks. 

Into  such  riot  ran  this  babel  of  loose 
tonc^ues  that  not  even  the  Precentor's  en- 
trance  stilled  it.  This  gentle,  soft-eyed  old 
monk  had,  indeed,  no  thought  to  govern 
aught  or  any,  and  gazed  about  over  the  mot- 
ley throng  as  one  abashed,  until  his  glance 
fell  upon  Hugh.  To  him  he  beckoned,  and, 
when  the  two  were  without  upon  the  stairs, 
made  hurried  explanation:  — 

"  His  Lordship  will  himself  sing  the  early 
Mass,  with  pontifical  procession,  and  full 
chapter  ceremonial.  Get  thee  with  all  speed 
into  thy  surphce,  comb  out  thy  locks  —  shalt 
bear  the  cross !  " 

A  brief  while  later,  paced  slowly  from  the 
cloisters  the  long  devotional  line,  Hugh,  all 
aglow  with  pride  in  his  new  office,  advancing 
at  its  head,  with  the  jewelled  cross  upheld 


Sir  Hcreward' s  Ring.  365 

aloft.  After  him  were  singing  boys  in  sur- 
plices and  singing  men  with  added  copes; 
then  two  score  monks  in  ebon  black  with 
lighted  tapers,  the  secular  canons,  the  priests 
of  the  Abbey,  the  priors,  the  deacons  attired 
for  the  altar,  and  last  the  venerable  Abbot, 
John  Strensham,  bent  with  age  and  infirmi- 
ties, and  wearing  over  his  vestments  an 
almuce  with  hood  of  ermine,  because  his 
blood  was  cold.  Into  the  choir  the  proces- 
sion filed  with  measured  step  and  solemn 
chant  —  and  then,  as  by  some  sudden  stroke 
of  universal  palsy,  foot  halted  and  song  died 
on  lips. 

Such  a  scene  as  never  monk  or  abbot  had 
dreamt  of  in  Tewkesbury  lay  before  them. 

The  doors  of  the  rood  screen  hung  wide, 
so  that  vision  swept  from  the  choir  down 
through  the  nave  and  its  outer  parts,  where 
the  simple  and  base-born  heard  the  Mass, 
straight  to  the  great  north  porch.  Here, 
too,  the  doors  were  open,  for  daylight 
streamed  therefrom  transversely  across  the 
nave.      And     in     this    liQ:ht     the     amazed 


366      Where  Avon  into  Severn  Flows. 

monks  saw  a  mired,  blood-stained,  bedrag- 
gled swarm  of  armed  men  struggling  fiercely 
for  entrance  before  their  fellows,  and  among 
these  some  who  smote  and  felled  the  others 
with  their  swords  or  battle-axes  —  amid 
clamor  of  shrieks  and  violent  curses,  rising 
above  the  ground-note  of  a  deep  wild  shout- 
ing as  from  a  multitude  without,  and  the 
furious  clash  of  steel  on  steel.  The  wrath 
of  hell  rasped  here  and  tore  itself  before  them 
on  the  consecrated  floor  of  heaven. 

While  yet  this  spell  of  bewilderment  lay 
upon  the  astounded  spectators  in  the  choir, 
Hugh  felt  himself  clutched  by  the  shoulder 
and  pushed  forward  down  the  steps  and  into 
the  aisle  by  a  strong  though  trembling  hand. 
It  was  the  old  Abbot,  who  in  the  moment 
of  horror  at  this  sacrilege  forgot  his  years. 
Raising  himself  to  his  full  height,  and 
snatching  the  great  beryl  monstrance  from 
the  altar,  he  hurried  now  down  the  nave  at 
such  a  pace  that  the  cross-bearer,  whom  he 
dragged  at  his  side,  and  the  wondering 
monks    and    choristers    who   followed,   were 


Sir  Hcreward' s  Ring.  367 

fain  almost  to  run  if  they  would  not  let  him 
reach  the  porch  alone. 

The  western  end  of  the  nave  held  now 
a  closely-packed  mass  of  fugitives,  with 
scarce  a  weapon  among  them  —  gilded  and 
blazoned  knight  huddled  against  unkempt 
billman,  lord  and  varlet  jammed  together 
—  all  crowding  backward  in  despair  from 
the  open  porch  where,  bestriding  corpses 
on  the  blood-wet  flags,  a  dozen  mailed 
ruffians  with  naked  swords  and  axes  bent 
ferocious,  hungry  scowls  upon  them. 

Helpless  and  dazed,  as  in  an  evil  dream, 
the  boy  felt  himself  thrust  forward  into  the 
very  front  of  these  war-wolves ;  and  as  he 
stood  there,  holding  the  cross  as  steadily 
as  might  be,  within  a  cloth-yard  shaft's 
length  of  their  ravening  jaws  and  flame-lit 
eyes,  his  foolish  knees  knocked  together, 
and  he  had  liked  to  swoon. 

But  then  —  lo !  these  fierce  men  put 
down  their  blades,  and,  bowing  first,  with 
ill-will  slunk  backwards  to  the  sides  of  the 
porch ;  and  the  foremost,  still  doggedly,  even 


368      Where  Avon  into  Severn  Flows. 

fell  upon  their  knees.  Then,  the  way  being 
clear,  Hugh  saw  that  where  the  churchyard 
graves  had  been  was  now,  underfoot,  a 
slaughter  pen,  and  above  a  wilderness  of 
wild  faces  and  dripping  pike-heads.  And 
in  the  forefront  of  this  awful  array,  with 
one  mailed  foot  on  the  threshold  of  the 
porch  itself,  stood  the  noblest  figure  of  a 
man  the  boy's  eyes  had  ever  compassed 
—  a  youngish  man  of  uncommon  stature 
and  great  girth  of  shoulders,  girt  with  pol- 
ished steel  armor  picked  in  gold,  and  having 
on  its  breast  a  silver  sun  with  flaring  jew- 
elled rays.  He  too  grasped  a  huge  naked 
sword,  and  sank  its  point  before  the  cross 
Hugh  held  —  the  while  two  esquires  made 
loose  the  rivets  of  his  towering  helmet  and 
lifted  it  from  him.  Then  he,  not  too  hum- 
bly, bowed  his  head  —  a  shapely  head,  with 
reddish-golden  curls  —  and  lifting  it,  looked 
into  the  church  with  the  flushed  face  and 
glance  of  a  very  god  of  war. 

The  Abbot,  tottering  as  he  came,  pushed 
Hugh  aside  and  reared  himself  proudly  in 


Sir  Hereward's  Ring.  369 

the  porch,  holding  the  monstrance  with 
shaken  hand  above  his  head,  and  crying 
out :  — 

"  Where  thou  standest,  my  liege,  thou 
art  not  King,  but  only  Edward  Plantagenet, 
a  sinner  even  as  the  meanest  of  us,  and  with 
the  blood  of  God's  children  on  thy  hands. 
Therefore  abase  thyself.     It  is   the  Host ! " 

The  King  dropped  to  his  knees  for  the 
counting  of  ten,  then  rose  and  made  a 
step  within  the  porch,  still  searching  sharply 
with  restless  eyes  into  the  shadows  of  the 
nave.  , 

"My  Lord  Abbot,"  he  said,  in  a  soft,  full 
voice  of  stately  measure  which  belied  his 
glance,  "  I  and  my  brothers  and  our  trusty 
friends  have  desire  to  forthwith  enter  this 
.holy  edifice,  and  with  thee  offer  reverent 
thanks  for  this  our  resplendent  victory." 
As  the  Abbot  held  his  silence,  the  King 
added,  "  I  had  not  looked  to  find  a  Strens- 
ham  liftino:  himself  between  the  saints  and 
my  piety." 

The    Abbot    found    his    voice :     "  I    am 


370      Where  Avon  into  Severn  Flows. 

stricken    in    years,    my   liege.     My  life    has 

been  thine  as  long  as  has  thy  crown ;  take 

it  now  if  needs  be.     But  while  it  lasts  me, 

into  this  consecrated  house  thou  may'st  not 

enter  to  ravish  or  mete  punishment.     Pledge 

me  thy  royal  faith  that  no  man  within  these 

walls    shall   feel   thy  wrath  —  that    all    shall 

be  suffered  to  go  forth  in  peace ! " 

"  Since    what     time,     my    Lord    Abbot," 

asked  the   King,  dryly,  "  hath  the  privilege 

of    sanctuary    descended     upon    the    black 

monks  of  Tewkesbury }  " 

"  Where  God's  flesh  and  blood  are,  there 

> 

is  sanctuary  !  "  shrilled  the  Abbot.  "  By 
the  pains  of  Calvary,  thou  shalt  not  enter 
unpledged  —  save  over  my  old  bones!" 

While  the  King's  answer  hung  yet  in 
doubt,  an  old  monk  slipped  past  the  Ab- 
bot, and,  thrusting  his  shaven  gray  poll  in 
obeisance  close  before  Edward,  mumbled 
a  request  which  none  behind  him  might 
hear.  It  was  Peter,  the  Brother  Sacristan 
—  and  the  King,  so  far  from  buffeting  the 
audacious     shaveling     with     his     gauntlet, 


Sir  Hcreivard's  Ring.  371 

thought  for  a  moment,  then  smiled,  and 
waved  Peter  aside, 

"  On  my  kingly  honor,  I  promise,"  he 
said  firmly,  with  a  glance  ranging  from 
Peter  to  the  Abbot,  and  the  half-smile  play- 
ing on  his  handsome,  ruddy  face.  "  Before 
God,  I  promise!  And  for  this  sacrilegious 
bloodshed  here,  will   I  do  penance ! " 

The  Abbot's  withered  old  lips  formed  a 
mute  thanksgiving.  "  My  liege,"  he  faltered, 
"  some  forewarning  of  your  triumph  of  a 
surety  brought  me  from  my  bed  to  the 
altar  this  day.  Praise  God  thy  enemies  are 
put  under  thy  feet !  Pray  God  for  humility 
and  a  gentle  spirit,  these  to  stay  thee  from 
trampling  them !  Wilt  follow,  and  hear  the 
Mass  ? " 

Thus  strangely,  the  broken  procession 
was  reformed,  and  Hugh,  aweary  now  under 
the  weight  of  the  cross,  sick  with  the  smell 
of  blood  and  the  sight  of  hewn  corpses  at 
his  feet,  stumbled  back  again  up  the  aisle, 
past  the  rood  screen,  into  the  choir,  the 
sinwrs  chanting:  the  solemn  Tc  Dciim  Lau- 


2i'^2      Where  Avon  into  Severn  Flows. 

dainus  behind  him,  and  King,  princes, 
nobles  and  knights  and  monks  and  soldiers 
followinor  the  Abbot  to  the  Hio^h  Altar. 
Here,  out  of  pity  at  his  white  face,  another 
took  his  office  on  him,  and  Hugh,  escaping 
from  the  incense-laden  air  of  the  choir,  stag- 
gered into  the  ambulatory,  faint  and  dis- 
tressed. He  had  too  little  wit  left  to  note 
that  the  side  aisles  and  transepts  held  scores 
of  skulking  fugitive  soldiers,  and  that  others 
of  a  like  kidney  were  hiding  in  the  shrine 
chapels  about  him. 

Not  even  when  one  of  these  came  forth 
from  the  enclosure  dedicated  to  St.  Edmund 
the  Martyr,  and  laid  hand  upon  his  shoul- 
der, was  he  startled,  but  only  looked  up 
with  wan  indifference  on  his  chalk-like 
face. 

"  Where  had  ye  that  ring }  "  a  deep  voice 
asked,  with  tightened  grip  upon  his  shoul- 
der to  point  the  query. 

Hugh  saw  now  that  it  was  a  stalwart 
young  man  who  questioned  him  —  and  one 
of  quality,  despite  the   miry  disorder  of  his 


Sir  Hcrcward'' s  Ring.  t^']'^ 

dress  and  armor,  and  his  dust-stained  face. 
What  could  be  discerned  of  this  face  was 
pleasing  enough,  too  —  but  the  lad's  head 
was  whirling  and  his  tongue  numbed  at  its 
roots.     For  his  life  he  could  not  speak. 

"That  ring!"  the  stranger  went  on  ex- 
citedly. "  I  saw  it  on  your  hand  whilst 
you  held  the  cross  —  the  which,  now  I 
think  on't,  saved  our  lives.  Fear  nothing, 
lad!  Tell  me,  how  came  you  by  it?  Per- 
chance I  am  beholden  to  you  for  the  letter 
last  night — if  so — will  ye  not  speak,  I  say!" 

Hugh,  with  a  despairing  effort,  gathered 
his  wits,  and  asked  faintly :  "  Are  you  the 
Sir  Hereward,  then,  to  whom  'twas  writ }  " 

"Aye,  none  other — what  there  is  left  of 
me.  And  writ  ye  the  letter?  And  at 
whose  behest  ? " 

The  boy  opened  his  mouth  to  answer, 
looked  blankly  up  into  his  questioner's  face 
—  then,  as  the  swelling  chant  ceased  sud- 
denly in  the  choir  beyond,  rolled  supinely 
on  the  stones  at  Sir  Hereward's  feet,  in  a 
deadly  swoon. 


374      Where  Avon  into  Severn  Flows. 

Through  what  remained  of  this  awful 
Saturday,  and  through  the  startled  hush 
of  the  Sunday  following  it,  the  boy  kept 
his  bed  in  a  faint,  drowsing  languor,  broken 
by  fits  of  shuddering  under  the  terror  of 
evil  dreams.  Oft  and  again,  the  writing 
monks  came  in  compassion  to  his  bedside, 
but  his  shaken  wits  made  of  these  visitors 
only  black  figures  in  the  background  of  an 
endless  scared  vision  of  stark  corpses,  bear- 
ing blood-stained  heraldic  shields  along  the 
pages  of  his  book. 

The  second  night  came,  and,  lagging 
desperately  through  the  long  watches,  stole 
off  by  a  trick  at  last  while  the  lad  slept  — 
so  that  he  woke  crow^ned  as  he  lay  with 
sunlight.  The  neglected  book  was  in  his 
thoughts  first  of  all — and  then  came  con- 
sciousness that  he  was  better  —  and  then, 
as  he  opened  his  eyes  and  blinked  against 
the  full  light,  he  saw  that  Peter  was  in  the 
room,  bearing  a  steaming  dish  of  broth. 

"  Art  fit  for  great  news  ?  "  the  Sacristan 
asked,  roughly    enough,   but   looking   down 


Sir  Hcrcward's  Ring.  375 

upon  the  boy  with  a  kindly  Hght  shining 
from  under  his  gray,  shaggy  brows.  "  The 
Prince  Richard  —  my  Lord  Duke  of  Gloster 
— ^^  hath  sent  hither  for  our  best  scrivener  to 
attend  him  at  the  Tolzey,  and  Brother 
Thomas,  conferring  with  the  Abbot,  hath 
nomfnated  thee.  Not  that  thou  art  our 
best,  nor  near  it,  but  thy  masters  are  in 
cowls  and  gowns,  and  since  Saturday's 
sacrilege  no  monk  may  stir  forth  to  serve 
the  Princes  or  the    King.     Art  fit  for  it }  " 

Hugh  sat  up  in  bed,  and  put  hand  to 
brow,  and  smiled  wistfully.  "  Aye,  save 
for  a  foolish  little  wandering  here,"  he 
made  answer,  "  naught  ails  me  now  !  "  And 
for  proof  he  seized  the  dish  and  buried  his 
jowl  in  it. 

Peter  strode  up  and  down  before  the 
narrow  casement,  grumbling  as  his  gown 
flapped  about  his  heels. 

"Sacrilege!  Sacrilege!"  he  sneered. 
"  Well  may  the  King  laugh  us  to  scorn 
as  witless  loons  !  For  what  is  '  sacrilege ' 
but  a   weapon  forged  by    Holy   Church   to 


376      Where  Avon  into  Severn  Flows. 

use  against  the  laity,  to  our  great  profit 
and  their  upHfting  ?  Yet  here  are  we, 
turning  its  point  upon  our  own  throats! 
Because  a  httle  paltry  blood  was  spattered 
in  the  porch  —  lo !  for  a  full  month  now 
the  Church  must  lie  in  penitential  dark- 
ness, no  matins,  no  masses,  no  vespers  — 
until  it  be  purified  and  newly  consecrated. 
Was  ever  such  madness  ?  Here  with  mine 
own  eyes  have  I  seen  the  son  of  a  king, 
he  that  was  born  Prince  of  Wales,  shov- 
elled into  a  grave  in  the  choir  without  so 
much  as  a  rush-light.  The  flags  are  all 
up  for  burials  —  the  Earl  of  Devon,  the 
Lord  Wenlock,  the  Lord  John  Beaufort, 
and  scores  of  knights  and  brave  gentlemen 
brought  to  us  by  God's  own  hand  —  and 
yet  we  may  not  harvest  so  much  as  a 
penny  for  it  all !  Oh !  senseless  chapter, 
to  decree  such  folly!" 

Hugh  had  in  swift  silence  dressed  him- 
self the  while  the  old  monk  babbled,  and 
stood  now  in  all  readiness.  "  I  will  to  the 
scriptorium,   good    Peter,"  he   said   eagerly, 


Sir  Hereward's  Ring.  377 

"  to  bring  ink  and  pens  and  paper,  and 
then  take  orders  from  Brother  Thomas  for 
my  going." 

"  Thomas  thou  may'st  not  see,  nor  any 
other,"  said  the  Sacristan ;  "  each  is  in  his 
cell,  upon  his  knees,  because  of  this  same 
sacrilege,  and  there  must  stick  for  days !  " 

"  But  thou  art  here !  " 

"  Oh,  aye !  "  the  old  monk  growled.  "  Be- 
like I  took  the  habit  overlate  in  life  to 
learn  the  trick  of  good,  thick,  solid  praying. 
They  set  me  now  and  again  at  small,  light 
supplications,  but  when  great  things  are 
besought,  my  help  seems  never  needful. 
Moreover,  I  have  the  burials  to  order.  A 
sweet  task,  truly !  To  be  laying  the  bones 
of  princes  and  lords  in  consecrated  ground 
as  thick  together  as  rogues  in  the  stocks  at 
fair-time,  and  not  the  purchase  of  so  much 
as  a  gum- wreath  to  show  for  it!  " 

The  two  walked  through  the  long  de- 
serted corridor  overhanging  the  cloisters, 
and  entered  the  tenantless  writing  room. 
Naught  had  been  touched   since   that  fate- 


378      Where  Avon  into  Severn  Flows. 

ful  Friday  night,  when  Hugh  had  written 
the  letter  for  the  strange  knight.  He  re- 
called this  now,  as  he  took  his  inkhorn 
from  the  dusty  table. 

"  Oh  —  tell  me,  Peter,"  he  said,  "  saw  you 
aught  of  the  Devon  gentleman  —  him  to 
whom  that  letter  was  writ  —  he  was  in  the 
Abbey  when  —  " 

"  Aye,  more  than  once.  He  was  holding 
you  in  his  arms  when  Thomas  and  I  found 
you.  A  goodly  youngster  —  a  thought  too 
hasty,  it  may  be,  but  sound  at  heart.  He 
hath  promised  a  year's  masses  for  the  dead 
Earl  of  Devon,  when  things  come  right 
again.  They  were  in  some  sort  kinsmen. 
And  I  have  sown  in  his  mind  pious 
thoughts  of,  moreover,  rearing  an  altar- 
tomb  in  the  Lady  Chapel,  with  effigy  and 
sculptured  sides.  Oh,  aye  —  he  had  food 
from  me  yestere'en  here  in  this  very  room, 
and  so  hotly  pressed  payment  on  me  that  —  " 

Even  as  the  Sacristan  spoke  the  veil  of 
silence  hanging  like  a  pall  over  the  Abbey 
was    rent  by  a  shrill,  piercing   shriek  from 


Sir  Hereward's  Ring.  379 

the  cloister-green  below!  Clambering  to 
the  table,  and  peering  forth,  Hugh  saw  the 
figures  of  men  running  along  the  vaulted 
walks,  and  of  others,  mailed,  and  with 
weapons,  chasing  them.  From  the  church 
beyond  proceeded  a  great  tumult,  with 
angry  shouts,  and  the  clashing  of  steel. 

The  King's  word  was  broken.  The  fugi- 
tives were  being  dragged  from  sanctuary! 

Above  the  noises  of  search  and  despair- 
ing flight  which  now  filled  the  air,  there 
rose  suddenly  the  sound  of  heavy  footsteps 
near  at  hand.  Then  the  further  door  was 
flung  open,  and  Sir  Hereward  Thayer, 
breathless,  bareheaded,  and  without  his 
corselet,  made  hasty  entrance.  His  eyes 
brightened  as  they  fell  upon  Peter. 

"  The  wolves  are  on  us,"  he  said,  "  and 
we  have  not  so  much  as  a  stick  to  fend 
them  off.  It  is  no  shame  to  hide.  Where 
shall  I  find  security,  good  brother.?" 

"  Alack !  there  will  be  none  here !  "  cried 
Peter.  "  If  they  are  in  the  church  itself,  think 
you  they  will  spare  mere  cells  and  ofiices } " 


380      Where  Avon  into  Severn  Flows. 

"  Whither  leads  this  room  ? "  asked  Sir 
Hereward,  opening  the  middle  door,  and 
looking  in  upon  Peter's  array  of  candles, 
banners,  wreaths,  and  palls.  "  Here,  under 
these,  I  can  make  myself  secret  till  the 
search  be  done  !  " 

Without  further  words,  he  lifted  from 
the  darkest  corner  a  pile  of  disordered  linen 
stuffs,  loose  shrouds,  and  grave-cloths,  and 
coverings  for  cofifins.  The  Sacristan,  as  he 
looked  from  the  doorway,  noted  with  shrewd 
swiftness  the  gay  colors  of  the  morris-dresses 
underneath,  and,  stepping  forward,  laid  his 
hand  upon  them.  Then  Hugh,  hurriedly, 
and  with  faltering  lips,  told  Peter  what  they 
were,  and  the  story  of  their  guilty  presence 
—  and  lo !    the  old  monk  laughed  aloud. 

Then  suddenly  —  as  the  clamor  of  the 
chase  deepened  outside  —  Peter  hissed  com- 
mands into  Sir  Hereward's  ear. 

"  Get  you  into  this  motley  in  all  haste ! 
Lose  no  moment !  Thus  only  can  you  win 
outside  and  pass  the  gates,  and  go  unques- 
tioned through  the  town !  " 


CHAPTER    III. 

HOW    HUGH    MET    THE    PRINCE. 

/^NLY  a  brief  space  later,  Hugh  and 
^-^^  this  new  companion  in  painted  fool's 
clothes  and  with  raddled  cheeks  made  their 
way  forth  from  the  great  west  gate  to  the 
green.  No  formless  loitering  of  idle  men- 
at-arms  now  met  their  gaze.  Straight  lines 
of  pikemen  had  been  posted  before  each 
entrance  to  church  or  monastery,  and  in 
the  open  space  beyond  stood  long  regu- 
lar ranks  of  other  soldiers,  with  fluttering 
standards  and  a  forest  of  tall  weapons  — 
all  newly  burnished  —  ashine  in  the  morn- 
ing sun. 

The    twain,    with     as    bold    a    front    as 

might   be,    walked    down    this    passage    of 

pikes    until    the    captain    of    the    watch,    a 

burly,    bearded     man     in     Flemish     armor, 

381 


382       Where  Avon  mto  Severn  Flows. 

stopped  them  with  uplifted  hand ;  and  two 
dozen  pike-heads  clashed  down  as  by  a 
single  touch,  to  bar  alike  progress  and 
retreat. 

"  I  am  the  scrivener  of  the  Abbey,"  Hugh 
called  out  from  within  this  steel  girdle, 
"  and  go  forth  to  the  Tolzey  at  behest  of 
your  master  and  mine  —  the  Lord  Duke 
of  Gloster." 

"  And  this  merry  fellow ;  hath  the  Duke 
need  for  him  likewise  ? "  the  captain  asked, 
with  sharp  glances.  "  I'm  sworn  his  Grace 
looks  more  for  headsmen  than  for  morris- 
dancers,  as  to-day's  wind  blows." 

"  Put  thy  queries  to  the  Duke  himself," 
said  Hugh ;  "  and  hold  us  no  longer  waiting 
here,  as  he  waits  at  the  Tolzey." 

Grumbling  in  his  beard,  the  captain 
dropped  his  hand,  and  the  pikes  flashed 
upward.  Hugh  and  the  mock  fool  passed 
forth,  and  turned  their  feet  townwards  across 
the  trampled  sward.  At  the  church  gate  to 
their  right  hand,  a  greater  body  of  armed 
men    stood,   and    beyond    these,   within    the 


How  Hugh  met  the  Prince.         383 

churchyard,  high  plumes  on  knightly  helmets 
nodded  in  the  morning  breeze.  Of  what 
was  going  forward  there  the  two  saw  noth- 
ing, but  hurried  on,  glad  to  pass  unques- 
tioned. 

They  came  thus  to  the  market-place, 
held  clear  by  solid  walls  of  troopers,  mailed, 
and  armed  to  the  teeth,  behind  whom  the 
townsfolk,  now  heartily  of  but  one  opinion, 
strove  to  win  friends  and  peep  between 
steel  shoulders  into  the  open  space.  Still 
unmolested,  the  boy,  bearing  his  inkhorn 
and  scroll  well  before  him  as  a  badge  of 
craft,  passed  with  his  companion  to  the 
side  of  the  cross  —  where  workmen  toiled 
with  axe  and  mallet  to  rear  a  platform  of 
newly  hewn  beams  and  boards  —  and  held 
his  course  straight  to  the  Tolzey. 

"  Saw  you  what  they  build,  there  by  the 
cross  ? "  whispered  Sir  Hereward.  "  It  is 
a  scaffold,  where  presently  axes  shall  hew 
flesh  and  blood,  not  logs."  And  then  he 
added,  "  Whither  go  we ;  into  the  very  tusks 
of  the  boar .?  " 


384      Where  Avon  htto  Severn  Flows. 

"  Nay,  but  to  get  behind  him,"  returned 
Hugh,  in  the  same  sidelong  whisper. 
"Halt  you  at  the  Tolzey  door;  mix  there 
with  the  throng  which  idly  gapes  upon 
the  soldiery,  until  chance  offers  to  steal 
through  some  alley  to  the  open  fields." 

"  And  you  leave  me  there  ?  " 

"  How  shall  it  be  otherwise  ?  And  —  I 
say  it  now  —  farewell ;  the  saints  protect 
thee ! " 

"  A  word,"  the  masker  whispered.  "  Art 
sure  it  was  a  knight  who  ordered  the  letter 
to  be  writ  t  " 

"  None  other.  A  knight  in  full  battle 
harness.  And —  Oh!  God  save  us!  // 
is  he ./ " 

Before  the  low-browed  Tolzey,  or  Toll- 
booth,  a  house  of  bricks  on  timber,  with 
projecting  gallery  reared  over  open  pillars, 
an  urgent  throng  of  citizens  swarmed  be- 
hind two  rows  of  soldiers,  to  note  the 
uttermost  of  what  was  passing.  This  Tol- 
zey—  at  once  exchange  and  town  hall,  court- 
house  and   jail  —  had   in   its   long  life  seen 


Two  Dozen  Pike-Hkads  clashed  down  as  by  a  Single  Touch." 


How  Hugh  met  the  Prince.        387 

strange  things,  but  nothing  hke  unto  to-day, 
when  the  King's  brother,  Richard  of  Gloster, 
and  John  Mowbray,  Duke  of  Norfolk,  held 
bloody  assize  upon  the  enemies  of  the  King. 
Above  the  gable  floated,  side  by  side,  two 
standards  of  deep  red  stuff,  on  which  were 
wrought,  one  the  silver  boar  of  Gloster, 
Lord  Constable  of  England,  one  the  silver 
lion  rampant  of  Norfolk,  Earl  Marshal. 

And  at  the  porch,  pushing  their  way 
through  the  press  of  onlookers  under  the 
arches  between  the  pillars,  a  knot  of  men- 
at-arms  dragged  forward  that  same  strange 
knight  at  whose  bidding  Hugh  had  written 
the  letter ! 

"  Look !  It  is  he ! "  the  boy  repeated 
breathlessly,  quickening  his  pace  for  the 
instant,  then  shrinking  back  dismayed. 

Sir  Hereward  laid  a  firm  hand  on  his 
arm.  "  I  quit  ye  not  here !  "  he  swore,  be- 
tween clenched  teeth.  "  Hasten  we  forward, 
and  into  the  presence  of  the  court." 

"But  —  it  means  death  to  thee  —  "the 
boy  began,  as  the  other  hurried  him  on. 


388      Where  Avon  into  Severn  Flows. 

"  Better  a  thousand  deaths  —  by  fire  and 
molten  lead  —  than  that  this  should  hap- 
pen," the  other  gasped.  "  Up  with  thy 
chin  !     They  must  not  say  us  nay !  " 

What  answers  they  gave,  in  what  manner 
their  arguments  satisfied,  the  twain  barely 
knew.  The  chief  matter  was  that  they 
won  their  way  into  the  Tolzey,  were  borne 
up  the  foul,  narrow  staircase  by  the  throng 
close  at  the  heels  of  the  soldiers  and  their 
captive,  and  suddenly  found  themselves 
stumbling  over  the  threshold  into  a  large 
room,  whereof  one  part  was  densely 
crowded,  and  one  empty  as  a  grave  fresh 
dug.  A  triple  line  of  steel  corselets,  sal- 
lets,  and  bills,  drawn  from  side  to  side,  split 
these  parts  asunder,  and  behind  this  line 
those  in  authority  at  the  door  roughly  made 
to  drive  the  new-comers. 

When  Huo^h  had  shown  his  writino^  tools 
and  told  his  errand,  they  smoothed  their 
tone  and  bade  him  stand  aside,  in  the 
cleared  space.  The  others  —  strange  knight, 
his  rude  captors,  the  mummer-gentleman  — 


I 


How  Hugh  met  the  Prince.         389 

all  were  swallowed  up  behind  the  barrier 
into  the  throng  which  snarled,  and  surged, 
and  gnashed  its  teeth,  in  weltering  heat 
and  evil  smells,  under  the  spell  of  the  scent 
of  blood. 

After  a  little  while  there  rose  an  echoing 
blast  of  trumpets  from  the  market-place 
without,  riding  as  it  were  on  the  crest  of 
a  great  wave  of  cheering.  Then  hurriedly 
the  officers  brought  forth  from  an  outer 
room  two  high  chairs  of  state,  gilded,  and 
bearing  the  town's  arms,  and  set  them  upon 
the  floor-cloth  under  a  canopy,  and  put 
behind  these,  on  either  side  of  the  dais, 
other  .chairs  and  stools  —  and  then  bowed 
low  as  the  doors  in  the  centre  were  flung 
open  with  loud  knocks,  and  two  heralds,  in 
blazoned  tabards,  entered.  Behind  these, 
with  stately  step,  by  twos  came  a  score  of 
great  warriors  and  lords,  mailed  to  the 
throat,  and  with  pages  bearing  their  cum- 
brous head-gear;  then  others  of  distinction, 
for  the  most  part  advanced  in  years,  who 
wore  rich  gowns  and  chains,  and  held  velvet 


390      Where  Avon  into  Severn  Flows. 

caps  in  their  hands ;  and  lastly,  two  young 
men  in  gowns  who  wore  their  caps  on 
their  heads.  And  one  of  these,  of  a  square, 
thick-featured  aspect,  with  broad  breast,  and 
reddish  hair,  was  Earl  Marshal  of  England, 
yet  had  scarce  a  look  from  any  one,  so  bent 
were  all  thoughts  upon  the  other. 

This  other  —  clad  in  sober  colors,  with 
a  broad  chain  upon  his  breast  and  a  black 
close-curling  plume  in  his  cap  —  came 
sedately  forward  and  sat  in  the  large 
chair  a  hand's  breadth  in  front  of  his 
companion's.  He  let  his  glance  rest  easily 
upon  the  crowded  half  of  the  room,  as 
if  noting  things  in  idleness  the  while  his 
mind  was  elsewhere. 

The  heralds  called  out  each  his  master's 
exalted  office,  and  what  matters  they  had 
come  now  to  rightly  judge  upon ;  and 
Hugh,  having  been  seated  at  a  desk  by 
the  window,  hung  with  all  his  eyes  to  the 
face  of  the  youth  in  the  foremost  chair. 

It  was  a  thin,  thoughtful  face,  dark  of 
skin     and    with     a     saddened     air.       The 


How  Htigh  7net  the  Prince.        391 

bended  nose  was  long,  the  point  well  out 
in  air  to  bespeak  an  inborn  swiftness  of 
scent.  And  above,  wide  apart,  there 
burned  a  steady  flame  of  great-hearted 
wisdom  in  two  deep  iron-gray  eyes  which 
embraced  all  things,  searched  calmly  and 
comprehended  all  things.  This  Prince, 
though  first  subject  and  foremost  soldier 
under  the  King,  his  brother,  was  even 
now  but  nineteen  years  of  age ;  and  Hugh, 
gazing  in  rapt  timidity  upon  him,  flushed 
with  shame  at  thought  of  his  own  years, 
close  treading  upon  those  of  -this  Prince, 
and  of  his  own  weak  unworthiness. 

The  boy  wrote  down  what  the  old  men 
in  gowns  bade  him  say  concerning  the 
dreadful  things  that  now  were  toward, 
and,  writing,  contrived  also  to  look  and 
listen  with  an  awed,  ashen  face  and  bewil- 
dered mind. 

Other  soldiers  had  entered  the  room, 
and,  making  a  weapon-lined  lane  between 
the  door  and  the  throng,  brought  forward 
now,    one    after   another,  the   captive   lords 


392       Where  Avon  into  Severn  Flows. 

and  knights  taken  red-handed  from  the 
Abbey  or  found  in  hiding  in  the  town. 
Each  in  his  turn,  with  elbows  thong-bound 
at  his  back,  with  torn  raiment  and  dishev- 
elled if  not  bandaged  head,  was  haled 
before  the  dais,  and  looked  into  these 
deep-glancing  eyes  of  his  boy  judge. 

Richard  held  them  in  his  calm,  engir- 
dling gaze  with  never  sign  of  heat  or  pity, 
and  to  each  spoke  in  tones  high  and 
sharp-cut  enough  for  all  to  hear,  but  of 
a  level  in  cold  dignity.  When  they  in 
turn  replied,  he  listened  gravely,  with  lip 
uplifted  so  that  his  teeth  were  seen.  Ever 
and  again  his  fingers  toyed  with  the  hilt 
of  the  baslard  at  his  girdle  the  while  he 
listened ;  and  these  to  whom  he  heark- 
ened thus  trembled  rightly  at  the  omen. 
When  all  needful  words  were  spent,  the 
Prince  leaned  for  a  moment  to  his  right 
and  whispered  apart  with  Mowbray,  Duke 
of  Norfolk ;  but  this  for  very  form's  sake, 
and  not  to  seek  counsel.  Then,  still  in 
the   same   chilled,  equable  voice,  he  would 


How  Hugh  met  the  Prince.        393 

mete  out  the  judgment,  suiting  to  each 
with  apposite  words  his  deliverance, 
whether  they  should  lose  their  heads  for 
their  treason  on  the  morrow,  or  depart 
under  the  King's  mercy  as  free  men,  pay- 
ing fines  in  gold  or  land,  or  suffering  no 
penalty  whatsoever.  Well  nigh  two  score 
and  ten  passed  thus  before  the  Prince, 
and  of  this  number  two-and-twenty  were 
sent  to  the  block.  Of  these,  the  greatest 
in  estate  was  Edmund  Beaufort,  Duke  of 
Somerset,  blood-cousin  to  his  judge,  and 
to  whom  gray  hairs  had  brought  neither 
wisdom  nor  control.  With  him  Prince 
Richard  parleyed  at  length,  pointing  out 
how  the  Beaufort  line  of  John  of  Gaunt, 
beginnino^  in  dishonor  with  Katherine 
Swynford,  and  filtering  through  envious 
trickery  and  disloyalty,  would  on  the  mor- 
row run  itself  miserably  out  in  muddy  lees 
upon  the  scaffold.  And  then  they  led 
the  childless  Duke  away  amid  the  an- 
gered hootings  of  the  crowd. 

None   but   this    Somerset,   and   Sir  John 


394      Where  Avon  into  Severn  Flows. 

Longstrother,  who  was  called  the  Prior  of 
St.  John's,  had  courage  wherewith  to  ac- 
cuse the  King  of  broken  faith,  in  that  he 
had  sworn  to  give  mercy  to  all  who  sought 
refuge  in  the  Abbey.  To  this  young 
Gloster,  still  deadly  calm,  made  answer 
that  the  King  had  given  no  such  pledge, 
but  only  granted  some  old  monk's  prayer 
that  all  of  gentle  blood  who  met  their 
death,  either  in  battle  or  on  the  scaffold, 
might  be  buried  in  the  Abbey  without 
dismemberment ;    this,  and  nothing  more. 

Of  a  sudden,  Hugh,  grown  at  home 
among  these  horrors,  saw  advancing  under 
guard  between  the  glittering  lines  of  bills, 
the  mailed  figure  he  knew  so  well.  The 
boy  held  his  breath  as  the  strange  Knight 
stood  before  the  dais,  helmeted  and  erect 
—  and  as  he  noted  that  the  morris-dancer, 
fiercely  pushing  his  way,  had  followed 
close  behind. 

"  What  now !  "  —  it  was  Mowbray  who 
spoke  —  "Who  comes  thus  covered.?  Loose 
us  his  helm  !  " 


How  Hugh  met  the  Prince.        395 

"  I  pray  ye  both,"  spoke  the  Knight, 
"  suffer  me  to  thus  remain !  It  is  as  easy 
to  lose  one's  head  in  this  fashion  as  an- 
other.    I  crave  no  other  mercy," 

A  pale,  flitting  smile  played  over  the 
Prince's  lips.  "  After  such  stress  of  sober 
state  affairs,  cousin  of  Norfolk,"  he  said, 
more  gently,  "  the  jest  is  grateful.  Hast 
brought  thy  rnorris-dancer  with  thee,  too, 
I  note,  good  sir !  " 

The  Knight  swung  round  to  follow  Glos- 
ter's  glance;  then,  after  a  moment's  earnest 
gaze  upon  the  disguised  man  close  at 
hand,  turned  with  closed  eyes  and  hand 
on  heart. 

The  Prince  rubbed  his  hands  softly  to- 
gether, and  smiled  again. 

"  Aye !  lift  us  the  basnet,"  he  said  to  the 
soldiers  standing  guard.  "The  jest  will  trip 
the  better  for  more  air  and  light"  —  and 
in  a  twinkling  the  men  had  unfastened 
and  raised  the  heavy  helmet;  and  the 
Knight  stood,  flushed  and  confused,  no 
knight  at  all !    but    a   young  and   fair-faced 


396       Where  Avon  into  Severn  Flows. 

woman,  with  loose  golden  hair  tumbled 
sweetly  upon  her  neck. 

Richard's  lips  curled  again,  and  his  teeth 
gleamed  under  them,  while  his  eyes  shone 
with  a  merry  light. 

"  Most  excellent ! "  he  chuckled,  looking 
to  Mowbray's  dull,  puzzled  face  in  mock 
search  for  sympathy.  "  Now  scrub  us  the 
paint  off  yon  mummer's  cheeks,  and  let 
his  head  be  bared.     The  jest  goes  bravely." 

Before  the  astonished  onlookers,  this  too 
was  done,  and  Sir  Hereward,  still  arrayed 
to  the  throat  in  motley,  with  eyes  sheep- 
ishly downcast,  stood  revealed. 

The  young  Prince  covered  the  two,  as 
they  stood,  with  his  mirthful  regard,  and 
rubbed  his  palms  together  in  silent  enjoy- 
ment. 

"  Read  me  the  riddle,  Lady  Kate,"  he 
said  at  last.  "  I  guess  thy  errand  to  these 
parts,  and  his  is  clear  enough  —  perchance 
too  clear !  —  but  why,  if  thou  must  trick 
him  out  in  morris-dress,  why  bring  him 
here.'*      Nay!"  —  as    the   lady   would    have 


How  Hugh  met  the  Prince.         397 

spoken  —  "fear  nothing;  I  like  the  jest 
thus  far,  but  comprehend  it   only  in    part." 

"  My  Lord  Duke,"  the  lady  said,  throw- 
ing back,  her  hair  with  a  proud  gesture, 
"we  were  children  together,  —  you  and  I, — 
you  will  credit  my  word.  I  knew  not  till 
this  moment  that  he  was  here,  but  deemed 
him  —  left  —  behind  on  the  field.  And  I 
came  hither,  not  in  your  despite,  or  your 
dread  brother's,  but  to  warn  my  friend  here, 
Sir  Hereward,  of  treason  menacing  him  in 
his  own  camp ;  and  to  that  end,  on  Fri- 
day night,  sent  I  a  letter  to  him  where  he 
lay,   by  my  own  servants  hand." 

"  This  is  the  letter,"  said  Sir  Hereward 
simply,  drawing  from  his  breast  the  folded 
paper  with  its  broken  seal. 

The  Prince  bent  forward,  took  the  mis- 
sive, spread  it  out  upon  his  knee,  and  read 
carefully  through  from  first  to  last.  *'  I 
grieve  to  learn  of  your  good  sire's  death," 
he  said  once,  lifting  his  eyes,  and  then 
read  on,  musingly.  At  last  he  smiled,  and 
shook  his  head. 


398      Where  Avon  into  Severn  Flows. 

"  I  have  full  knowledge  —  none  better, 
Lady  Kate,"  he  said,  "  of  thy  high  spirits 
and  brave  temper.  Thou  wert  of  the  mettle 
of  knights-errant  even  in  short  clothes.  But 
what  I  looked  not  for  was  this  clerkly  hand, 
this  deft  scrolling  of  lines  and  letters."  Still 
with  dancing  eyes  he  held  the  paper  up 
before  the  Earl  Marshal.  "  Why,  look  you, 
cousin  of  Norfolk  !  'Tis  as  fair  as  any  guild 
work  from  Bruges.  And  from  a  woman's 
hand,  mark  ye  !  " 

The  lady  hung  her  head  and  blushed, 
then,  lifting  it,  smiled.  "  Your  Grace  ever 
loved  his  jest,"  she  said.  "  Alas,  I  am  no 
clerk,  nor  would  be  with  a  thousand  years  of 
teaching.  I  could  more  easily  ride,  by  night 
and  day,  across  from  Devon  to  save  my  — 
my  friend,  than  mark  a  straight  line  on 
paper." 

"  And  who  writ  ye  this  ?  "  pursued  Rich- 
ard, eying  the  scroll  afresh. 

"  A  youth  in  the  Abbey,"  said  the  lady, 
and  Sir  Hereward  pointed  him  out  where 
he  sat. 


How  Hugh  met  the  Prince.        399 

Then  suddenly  Hugh,  staring  vaguely  at 
all  this,  heard  some  one  say  in  his  ear  that 
his  Grace  had  called  for  him,  and  felt 
another  push  him  to  his  feet  —  and  then 
saw,  as  through  a  golden  fog,  that  the 
Prince  held  up  a  jewelled  finger,  beckon- 
ing to  him.  The  boy's  heart  thumped  to 
his  throat  with  every  step  as  he  moved 
to  the  dais. 

"  It  is  thy  hand,  eh  1 "  Duke  Richard 
asked,  with  kindly  voice,  and  the  lad  could 
only  bow  and  blush.  One  of  the  old  men  at 
the  table  had  brought  forward  as  well  the 
scrolls  on  which  Hugh  had  written  the 
day's  grim  record,  and  the  Prince  glanced 
over  these  with  a  student's  lingering  eye. 
Then,  with  a  quaint  smile  and  sigh,  he 
said :  — 

"  Behold  how  fair  and  goodly  a  thing  is 
learning !  Of  ye  three,  this  stripling  boy 
comes  first  in  the  race.  Thou  mightst  have 
had  thy  ride  for  naught,  my  Lady  Kate,  but 
for  his  craft.  And  thou,  sirrah,  mightst 
have  been  murdered  in   thy  camp,  but  for 


400      Where  Avon  into  Severn  Flows. 

this  same  letter.  And  wert  thou  set  upon 
by  these  knaves  ?  " 

"  Aye,  your  Grace,"  Sir  Hereward  replied, 
"and  slew  two,  with  some  small  hurt  to  my- 
self, and  their  fellows  fled  ^  to  be  butchered 
elsewhere  —  down  by  the  mill  pit." 

The  Prince  nodded  his  head  in  satisfac- 
tion, then  more  slowly  spoke  again. 

"  Sir  Hereward,  were  thy  head  a  match 
for  thy  heart  or  thy  vast  sinews,  belike  thou 
hadst  not  saved  it  to-day.  'Tis  dull  of  wit, 
but  belongs  to  a  simple  valiant  gentleman, 
and  I  will  not  lop  it  from  his  shoulders.  Get 
thee  to  Devon,  and  keep  within  the  King's 
grace  —  and  if  the  taste  for  mumming 
rise  in  thee  again,  and  will  not  down,  go 
morris-dancing  on  thine  own  estates  —  or 
hers.  And  thou  —  saucy  Kate  —  go  take 
thy  man,  and  make  thy  wit  the  complement 
of  his  slow  honesty.  But  no  tricks  !  Why, 
silly  pretty  maid,  didst  think  England  was 
ruled  by  blind  men  !  Thou  hadst  not  killed 
thy  first  horse,  in  Somerset,  ere  we  knew  of 
thee  and  thy  quest.     And  as  for  thy  knight 


How  Hugh  met  the  Prince.         401 

in  motley,  loud  rumor  preceded  him  down 
the  street  to-day  as  if  he  had  been  the 
borough  bellman." 

Sir  Hereward,  holding  the  lady's  hand, 
would  at  this  have  made  some  speech  of 
thanks,  but  that  the  Prince  held  up  his 
finger  to  stop  him. 

"  Nay  —  another  day,"  he  said,  "  perchance 
when  we  do  send  for  thee  to  come  up  to 
London  town.  Thy  affairs  have  eaten  up 
too  much  time,  as  it  stands.  The  saints 
speed  thee.  Lady  Kate,  and  teach  thee  to 
write.  In  this  rude,  topsy-turvy  world, 
nauQ-ht  is  secure  but  learning.  Observe 
what  joy  I  have  in  this  clerkly  boy  whose 
skilled  hand  mocks  Master  Caxton's  types 
in  the  Low  Countries  —  but  of  that  thou 
knowest  nothino^.  I  am  beholden  to  thee 
for  the  boy.  This  night  I'll  beg  him  of 
the  Abbot,  and  he  shall  be  of  my  house- 
hold at  Baynard's.  Go  now.  I  am  aweary 
of  good  unlettered  folk." 

And  as  the  twain,  bowing,  left  the  room, 
the  Prince  turned  again  to  the  scrivener  lad. 


i 


c^V/ 


RARE  BOOK 
COLLECTION 


THE  LIBRARY  OF  THE 

UNIVERSITY  OF 

NORTH  CAROLINA 

AT 

CHAPEL  HILL 

Wilmer 

470 

C.2 


I  fffiftliliftiiPMI 


